Sean Bean Saves Westeros - Book 1: Sean Lends a Hand
by High Plains Drifter
Summary: After a hard night's celebrating at the cast and crew party for the end of filming Season One of Game of Thrones, Sean wakes up to discover he's not in Kansas anymore. October 22, 2014 - COMPLETE.
1. Chapter 1

_When not directly engaged giving orders or listening to reports, he noted that the long days and mile eating gait of his horse would cause his mind to drift back to that other world. Most frequently he dreamed about the yellow house and how he came to this mad place._

The final day of filming had ended for the tenth and last episode. Even though his last shot had come in "Baelor," he'd stuck around Belfast to watch the season wrap up. The crew turned out to be an amazing group of blokes; and only Georgina and a solicitor needed him back in London in order to sign the paperwork ending his fourth marriage. So he, like the rest, had piled into the vibrantly piss colored pub right outside Paint Hall Studio that David and DB had rented for the cast's goodbye party.

_A cold wind blew down from the North, of course (!), and he adjusted the heavy cloak wrapped around his body, trying in vain to find some pocket of warmth. Autumn here made a bad Yorkshire winter look positively balmy._

Inside the yellow house, one of the original waterfront stone buildings not torn down in the Titanic Quarter's rush to redevelopment, he'd had a few pints, chatted some with Lena, Aidan, and Rory, and also individually thanked Brian, Daniel, and Alan for their work directing the show. Finding himself in a lull, he quickly spotted the attractive, thirty something key grip and moved off to say hello. With a little flirting, she'd pulled up her long black hair and tugged down her collar to fully display her dragon tattoo. Things had been about to happily progress further when Clint, the American master armorer, and Harry, the stunt coordinator, spoiled the mood by barging in with a jumbo sized package.

"You always die," Clint cheerfully blurted out by way of introduction.

"Well them's the roles I get mate," he responded through gritted teeth. "A man's got to eat. Besides, I was Zeus just last year. Can't kill a Greek God, now can they?"

"What are you filming next?" Harry asked with some excitement.

It was then that Dalia, he thought her name was Dalia, the constant, loud drum beat of thousands of hooves will mess with a man's memories, had grown bored and wandered off with her body art.

"Uhm, I think my agent's lined up a mercenary ensemble pic and also a spy thriller. Not sure which shoots first."

"Nothing more medieval?" Clint asked sadly.

"Sorry, no. Don't think so." The pair looked crestfallen at the news. "What's the problem mates?"

"Well … we made up a present for you. For your next film. Something …." and Clint had broken down giggling.

"… tee hee, to make sure you make it through … alive for a change," said Harry, finishing up.

And with that they opened their big box.

"Ha ha assholes," he barked, looking down at the shiny prop armor.

"No, no, it's not what you think," Clint proclaimed.

"I know a guy," Harry insisted. "That's real stuff. Steel. It'd stop a bullet, serious."

His face crinkled in suspicion, but he didn't put an immediate end to their little show. They were alright blokes and on set he'd spent many an hour telling them how Peter's coordinators had run the sword works down in New Zealand. So with no discouragement, nothing would satisfy them but he put their present on. Foolishly, he agreed.

And no sooner were the straps tightened, than Niko, Iain, Rich, and Rory were pestering him, giving him shit. And with every pint thrown back, someone else had to pound on the plate to prove to themselves it wasn't foil wrapped chicken wire. When he finally complained that his ribs were starting to hurt, Clint explained that that was why real knights wore thick padding, doublets, beneath their plate.

_He shifted atop his horse, with hardly a conscious thought adjusting where the plate rested against his torso. The damned American had been correct. Properly decked out in padding and with a hard month's experience wearing fifty pounds of thick steel, he hardly felt the armor anymore. The thing was now like a second skin; one that too soon he might likely need yet again._

With his complaint, Clint had thrust another pint at him. "Here, pain medicine." He remembered downing the bitter, pale ale, medicine, but not much more beyond that.

In the early morning, the inside of the yellow house looked a lot dingier from the corner of the main draught room he found himself in. The lights had been turned off, or so he thought, but someone had started a smoky fire in a fireplace he hadn't remembered seeing the night before. The members of the crew who'd foolishly drunk as much as he had, and were still lingering about the pub, had apparently also gotten into the spirit of things and dressed as if they were still on set. Surprisingly he didn't recognize any of them and on closer inspection discovered that they stank.

He'd felt the keys in his pocket and hoped no one had towed his car in the night. It was time to get back to the hotel, shower, change, and check the Internet for any afternoon flights out of Belfast International. He stepped outside and squinted.

"What the fuck!" he burst. The sound stages of Paint Hall Studio were missing, replaced by an old stone fortress. The multistory apartments and stores of the Titanic Quarter were gone; in their place stood a thick medieval wall and buildings more appropriate for a scenic Bavarian village. The waters of the Lough looked strange, now populated by an immense rock, sailing ships, and galleys instead of barges, container ships, and power boats. He shivered with dread. The world spun. He snapped his head back around to look at the yellow house, the only god damned thing that looked the same as before.

Two men carrying long spears over their shoulders stopped, eyes a goggle at him. "My lord," they said in unison and sketched him quick bows.

"Who am I?" he stuttered.

"My lord?"

"Who am I?!" he demanded louder, near ranting.

They looked confused. "L-l-l-lord Stark, my lord," one choked out.

"Where am I?"

"White Harbor, my lord."

At these words, Sean Bean at last lost all control and pissed his shiny new armor.

"_My lord? My lord?" the sweet voice called, drawing him out of his months old memory of the yellow house._

_He straightened his back and turned to look at the gorgeous woman riding beside him. Who needed Georgina any way. He smiled. "Yes, Lady Catelyn?"_

"_My Uncle the Blackfish has returned, there are no more Lannister patrols waiting between here and King's Landing."_

"_I'll kill Joffrey myself if he's hurt a single hair on Sansa's head," snarled the teen mounted on the other side of him._

"_There'll be no massacre if we can help it Robb," he said sternly. "The Lannisters will receive the justice due them, but not at the expense of the smallfolk. That goes for all of you," he called in a loud voice._

_The wolfish lords riding around him obediently nodded their heads._

'_Gods George,' he thought, looking out at the ruthless killers he now called friends. 'What a fucked up world you thought up.'_


	2. Chapter 2

_Jesus the smell carried a long, long ways. Over a half a million souls called King's Landing home and now it lay flooded beneath a sea of refugees fleeing the righteous wrath of a truly pissed off North. He'd thought months spent with twenty thousand men fighting pitched battles and marching through the war ravaged countryside had inured his nose to such a stench. Every village, town, and castle he passed by or actually spent the night in held the redolent scent of shit, raw sewage, and over full middens. And not only did his army create the odor of death wherever it fought, but it cheerily carried the putrid essence with them. His soul shivered inadvertently as he looked up at the heads carried atop the spears at the front of the main column pushing down toward the capital._

_The morning sunlight caught the red hair resting high above the swaggering cocks pledged to Winterfell. Clumps had fallen out, but enough remained to give the rotting flesh of the Lord of Casterly Rock's skull an appropriate Lannister crimson sheen. But it was the eyes, well eye sockets really, that caught Sean's attention. Causing him to remember the first time those imperious, and still whole, eyes had gazed on him._

Tywin Lannister squinted suspiciously, looking up and down at the form of the man he thought of as Ned Stark, or more likely, as Lord Stark's imposter. 'God,' Sean thought, 'he really looks like Charles. Well … almost.'

The lord leading the army waiting impatiently at the bottom of the long slope finally broke his ominous stare and spoke indignantly. "Lord Bolton, Lord Cerwyn, Lord Hornwood, Lord Glover, what childish game do you play at, bringing before me this … this mummer?! Do you mean to scare me? Or just delay me further, since I see no sign of the boy Robb, who I know truly leads you now?"

The four Northern lords, brutal killers a more apt description, stayed silent. He'd had the devil's own time convincing them to believe he was Ned. But they'd come around in the end, especially after he pitched them the Green Fork strategy he remembered the crew talking about back on the set. Appreciating how their silence must irk the Lannister, Sean grinned. "No ruse. No mummer's show. A fort night ago Ilyn Payne, at the command of your grandson and under the eyes of my own daughters, beheaded me. But the old gods, the gods of ice and the weirwood, were not done with me. They returned me to the North. Charging me to put an end to the madness your son and daughter started."

"Tyrion had nothing to do with your sons … with the attack on Bran Stark and Lady Catelyn," not Charles snapped.

"No, he didn't," Sean agreed. "Which is why I asked you to bring that son of yours to this parley." He turned to face the so called Imp. Uglier than Peter and with actual mismatched eyes; but like Peter, an aura of sorts, some indefinable charisma, bubbled out of him. "My heartfelt apologies Lord Tyrion for the horrific ordeal my lady wife, and her unhinged sister, put you through in the Vale. If it helps you to know, both Catelyn and I were tricked by her childhood friend, the aptly named Littlefinger." He wondered yet again how much Catelyn looked like Michelle and Littlefinger like Aidan. Hopefully he'd live long enough to find out.

Fascination and distrust both shone in the halfman's eyes.

"Baelish? What does that ill-bred toad have to do with this? And you spoke of my daughter Cersei. What of her?" Tywin Lannister demanded.

"Patience, Lord Lannister. All will be revealed, but one thing at a time. The dagger that so cruelly cut my wife, Littlefinger declared it yours, Lord Tyrion; won when you bet against your brother in a tourney. But you didn't bet against Jaime. In fact, you never bet against Jaime, do you?"

"No," replied not Peter. "And I told Lady Catelyn that, more times than I'd care to remember."

"And I wished she'd listened to you. Very much so."

"Then why did Baelish lie? And who's dagger was it?" not Charles asked with a tone of natural authority and superiority.

It took all of Sean's acting skills not to immediately bend to the other man's will. He paused and forced himself to exude an icy, aristocratic demeanor that would have made Ken or Ian proud. "Why to sow chaos. To pit the Great Houses against each other. To make his own services more appreciated, more valued, so that he might rise even higher than Master of Coin. But mostly, to distract my investigation from his own vile crime."

Not Charles snorted and shared a look with who could only be his brother.

"And what would that be?" Lord Kevan Lannister asked dubiously.

"The murder of Jon Arryn."

Small gasps and mutterings of "what?" and "why?" greeted this pronouncement.

"Oh it gets better," Sean continued. "Littlefinger plotted the Hands death with his lover ..." He paused again, to artfully let the tension rise. "… Lysa Arryn."

Scoffs of disbelief met his proclamation.

"You seek to place blame on your … on Lord Stark's own good-sister? It seems you are the one who seeks to sow chaos and confusion with your mummer's stories," Tywin Lannister tugged on his reins and stated. "I will take my leave of you and soon return with my …"

"No!" burst out not Peter. The imp's voice paled in comparison to actual Peter's. "Please wait, father … it … it makes sense. I've … been around King's Landing. Heard Littlefinger's boasts. Seen, at court, how he … he acted around the Arryns. This man's words have the ring of truth about them."

"Then was it Baelish too who magically arranged for the dagger to attack Lady Stark?" Lord Tywin asked with withering skepticism.

"No," Sean answered firmly. "The blade belonged to Robert."

More gasps. That statement truly did capture not Charles attention.

Sean continued, "Who but a King could have such a collection of dragon bone daggars that when one went missing not a soul would notice?"

"Then who?" asked an intrigued Tyrion.

"Joffrey. The boy's the second coming of Aerys the Mad. And I'm not just saying that because he cut my head off," Sean said with a smirk.

Not Charles eyes narrowed dangerously at the implication of his kin. "Why?"

He shrugged. "You'll have to ask him. Perhaps he wanted to finish the work his parents started when they threw my son Bran out of the tower window in Winterfell."

Blank and confused looks met his statement, all except for Tyrion.

Sean's smirk widened. "Yes, you're wondering why I said 'parents.' I've already said the blade was Robert's. Well that morning he was out hunting with me in the Wolfswood."

Not Charles sensed he wasn't going to like what came next. As he rested a hand on the pommel of his sword he muttered, "Go on."

"A father, such a tricky word. Who really, other than the mother, knows the sire of her progeny? You yourself have trouble acknowledging Tyrion as your own offspring, don't you Lord Lannister?" He dug the verbal knife deeper. Spent many a troubled night suspecting Joanna cheated on you?"

Tywin Lannister said nothing. He clasped the pommel in a bone breaking grip, grinding his teeth in exactly the way Sean imagined Stannis Baratheon did.

"On that day Cersei stayed behind in Winterfell. She stayed behind so she could fuck her lover in secret. But Bran, an excellent climber, accidentally stumbled upon them in the deserted tower; and Jaime 'Kingslayer,' sister-fucker Lannister made my son a cripple for it," he snarled.

"No." choked Tywin Lannister. He partly pulled his sword from the scabbard before his control reasserted itself, ensuring the sanctity of the parley wasn't broken. "Enough of you and your charade. You will pay for these … lies," he whispered. "Come!"

And off the party of five trotted, heading back to the mass of knights, men-at-arms, and archers waiting him at the bottom of the hill.

"He'll come at us hard, my Lord," Roose Bolton hissed in his quiet, reptilian voice.

"All the way to the Twins, I hope," Sean answered. "Tywin Lannister's the most vicious, but also the most stupid, when it comes to slights against his family."

"Then lets pray the stupid rage outweighs the clever anger, my Lord," Robett Glover responded.

"Yes," not Ned laughed, trying to hide his nervousness at having provoked the lion. "And in the meantime, if the old Gods words to me were true, Robb should right now be capturing the Kingslayer and freeing Riverrun. When we're through with them, the Lannisters will wish the Others had taken them."

_He found the Northern vanguard pulled up a half mile from the Dragon Gate. Now the companies of the main body of his host started to break left and right off the Kingsroad. Sean hoped they made an impressive looking line for those trapped in the city to view. He also hoped that Galbart and Rickard, in charge of the van, had already detailed squadrons of cavalry off to keep an eye on the other gates into the massive city. Or least they had better of done so if they didn't want an icy Ned monologue expressing his extreme displeasure to fall on their hairy, unwashed barbarian asses. He wished he remembered more Shakespeare, so far it had worked motivational wonders in Westeros. The boys had really lapped up the Saint Crispin's Day Speech right before the knights of the Westerlands impaled themselves on the pike shafts of the North alongside the Green Fork. But now it was time to do things according to the so called code of the Seven Kingdom's chivalry._

"_Lord Roose," he commanded, "ride up to the gate and demand entrance in the name of the true and only king, Stannis Baratheon, the First of His Name; King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men; Lord of the Seven Kingdoms; and, Protector of the Realm."_

_The bloodless leech bobbed his pale face and in that annoying, too quiet voice, replied, "As my Lord requires." Off the flaying Lord of the Dreadfort trotted with his Frey squire and band of personal bodyguards to do as his lord bid him._

'_Don't think I forgot what you did in the not now, fuck head," Sean thought. 'I hope some nervous gold cloak pitches a pot of wildfire at your sorry ass.'_

"_Do you think they will yield, my lord?" the sweet voice beside him asked._

_He stopped his calculated scrutiny of Bolton and turned to affectionately look at his passionate, sex crazed, red haired not wife; even prettier than Michelle despite the ugly scars on her hands. 'Someday I'll wish this shit hole had Viagra.' He felt his groin stir. 'But not yet thank god.' "They'll return Sansa to us unharmed or discover what 'Winter Is Coming,' really means."_


	3. Chapter 3

"_They flung insults at me, my Lord," said Roose Bolton with quiet disdain._

_Sean fought hard to A) keep the icy Ned look in place, B) not bark 'speak louder for Christ's sake,' C) stop his skin from crawling away from the creepy Lord of the Dreadfort, and D) hide his disappointment that no one fragged Bolton's sorry pale carcass during his brief mission to the Dragon Gate. He sighed, but not too dramatically. "T'was to be expected from the scared fools," Sean murmured. He swung his head, with slightly narrowed eyes, from side to side to quickly take in all the House leaders gathered about to cue them that their opinions were about to be requested. "The Old Gods warned me that the pyromancers have been brewing their dragon draught at the bitch Queen's command. Ultimately, that may burn the city more than it will us. However, my lords, should we storm the walls, what casualties can we expect?"_

_His group of killers typically shone with near fanaticism when he mentioned his "special" connection with the Old Gods, but word of the wildfire threat only brought out scowls and glum looks._

"_Thousands," the bloodless vampire hissed._

"_Aye!" boomed the Greatjon. "Roose has the right of it."_

_Glover, Hornwood, Frey, Tully, Mallister, Mormont, Tallhart, Blackwood, Cerwyn, Karstark, Tully, Manderly, Vance (of the Atranta Vances), Ryswell, and Braken all nodded or muttered their agreement at Bolton's assessment. _

_The arse was a treacherous dog in desperate need of being put down, but he did know his shit. Sean pursed his lips in a thoughtful pose. He debated rubbing his stubbly beard, but chose not add any extra embellishment. "Thousands," he echoed, feeling the weight of real lives at stake._

Jabba the Hut; well, his unconscious mind's imaginative rendering of the ridiculously obese Wyman Manderly, lumbered with all possible speed (not much!) off his heavily reinforced throne in the Merman's Court of the New Castle within White Harbor.

"My Lord!" he wheezed, trying to bow as far as his fat gut would allow. With a grimace of discomfort the tub of lard straightened his back.

No, not Jabba the Hut. That was unfair. An old bull walrus would be more apt, Sean decided.

"We had no word you'd escaped your imprisonment! Lady Catelyn left here just a week ago with my banners, bound for the gathering at Moat Caillin that young Lord Robb called for."

Hhmmmn, 'interesting' he thought, trying to dredge up where in the stories chronology that put him. 'I might have just been beheaded. Well, that is if I was really poor, doomed Ned.'

The walrus chortled.

Coo coo cuchoo flitted through his brain.

"If anyone could cut his way single handedly out of King's Landing, it's you, my Lord," the figment of his imagination labelled Wyman Manderly gushed.

He knew sycophancy. He was a movie star, wasn't he, god damn it! But this seemed more than a little over the top for even a dream. So he simply smiled modestly at the praise and said nothing.

"Will you go join your son and seek justice for good King Robert's murder and the Lannisters' treachery?"

Sean pondered for a moment and decided to play along. His under things might be a bet damp. And he smelled a mite too much like real piss. But this couldn't be real. Could it? Nahhhh. He would act the hero until he woke up. And when he did, he hoped he remembered it all, cause this was fucking amazing.

"Lord Manderly, I wish I could partake of your famed hospitality, but time is of the essence. The Old Gods themselves have intervened in my destiny; to return me to the North so that I might set a great wrong right. May I ask of you, Winterfell's truest friend, for a sturdy horse and a company of stout companions to accompany me to my heir and lady wife?"

The blubbery walrus positively puffed up, if that was possible, as Sean's little speech. "Certainly, my Lord," the man practically shouted in agreement. And then he did in fact bellow, "Serrrr Tyyyyybald! Horses! My Lord requires a mount!"

'Well that was easy,' he thought.

'_This isn't going to be easy,' he thought. The grim faces of his closest barbarian advisors confirmed it. But luckily Sean played with a stacked deck. "I have no doubt our brave banners could take the walls, but a northerner's life is as precious to me as mine own honor," he said stolidly. Then he suddenly grinned. "Luckily a clever northerner knows how to sweet talk a southern lass out of her maidenhood. And what's more, that bitch queen hiding behind those walls is nothing but a cheap whore. We just need to dangle the right purse of coins in order to open up her gate."_

_The group of killers shook with laughter. A meager smile of amusement even turned up Bolton's bloodless lips. Ned would never have japed with them like that, but they seemed to enjoy the new, Old Gods' ordained, friendlier bloke they believed to be their over lord. Sean tried his best to stay in character, but there are limits to even method acting; sometimes the lad from Sheffield just slipped out._

"_Lord Roose, if you please, have your men build a tall stand just out of catapult range. It's time Cersei," and he drenched her name with scorn, "saw the Kingslayer on display. Oh, and make sure your Flayed Man banner flies conspicuously above it. I want HER to get exactly the correct impression about what I intend to do to her … lover."_

_The leech lover truly smiled now. "As my lord commands." And off he trotted looking for the nearest bunch of his fierce banners._

"_My friends," not Ned continued vigorously. "We must not wait solely on a stratagem that relies on the vagaries of a woman. Each of you are to task your stealthiest men to approach the walls and gates tonight, and every night until the city falls. Work it out amongst yourselves which lord has which stretch of wall. I want your slyest hunters, craftiest poachers, and sneakiest thieves to sweet talk the gold cloaks and scum who man the parapets with bribes. Silver, gold, writs of amnesty, anything they think might work. I want a way that doesn't cost us blood."_

_The cutthroats seemed to appreciate that idea. In their own way, they did look after their own banners. A man's sworn pledge did have meaning here. Not a lawyer among this lot._

"_Ser Brynden?"_

"_Yes, Lord Stark."_

"_You're a blackfish. Find a few more likely trouts and scout out along the edges of the Blackwater, both the bay and the rush. The Targaryens built secret tunnels and entrances to the Red Keep." He smiled, looking at Catelyn's bluff, loyal to the core uncle. "Kindly discover one, Ser."_

"_Gladly."_

"_Good. In the meantime, the men are to build a siege line, a score of catapults, a half dozen rolling siege towers, and plenty of very, very long ladders. I don't intend to assault those walls, but those bastards damned well need to fucking think we intend to. Any questions? No? Good. Then I'm off to find my bloody pavilion."_

_Off the merry band of rogues scurried to do not Ned's bidding. He still got a surge of near sexual excitement from the power he held over these hard, dangerous men. He chuckled inside. If only they knew who he really was._

_Ahem. "Father?" called the somewhat troubled voice of not Rich._

_Robb's resemblance to the young Scot who Sean knew from the set was tenuous at best. Here, he actually bore a true familial look to not Michelle. "Yes, Robb? Is something bothering you?"_

"_Do you intend to have Lord Bolton torture the Kingslayer?" he asked uncomfortably._

"_Only if I have to son."_

_A pained look expressed itself on the boy's teenage face. "But, that … there is no honor in that, ser."_

_Sean sighed. "No, there isn't he agreed. You hate the Lannisters, Robb. But you don't really know them. Don't know them like I know them. I lived in that cesspool of lies and greed for many months before they cut my head off. There's not a shred of honor in any of them. So tell me, how many more thousands of good, honest north men must die simply because we would refuse to treat one man, ONE MAN, the way he and all his kin would do, have already done, to a Stark?"_

"_I don't like it father," Robb answered petulantly, guided by the certainty of youth and an upbringing under Ned 'too fucking honorable for his own good' Stark._

_Sean sighed again. "I don't either son, but a single life, let alone a thousand lives, is a precious thing."_

A thousand men. At least. That many northerners had died delaying Tywin Lannister's pursuit the last three days up the Kingsroad. Now he would see if his plan, ok, mostly the crew's discussions during filming of what Roose Bolton should have done along the Green Fork, would work. Everybody on set had had opinions, but the smart talk always seemed to focus on the Trident; the possibilities it presented, not the obstacles. None of the talk had ever mentioned the brutal, horrible human cost of war.

He'd swallowed bile the first time he saw a man, unfortunately left behind by his brothers due to a lamed mount, struck down, arm cut clean off, by an armored knight clad in a purple unicorn emblazoned surcoat. He'd barely kept his gorge watching the first carefully Bolton planned ambush cut down the five hundred or so Lannister riders in the van of the pursuit. Blood spurted. Limbs fell. Heads rolled. Intestines slid out. Horses screamed. Men shrieked, moaned, cried, and called for their mothers.

It was at that moment Sean realized, 'this shit was real!' The crazy, feudal thinking sons of bitches following him around like faithful dogs suddenly stopped being video game simulations in his brain. The fact that they lived, they loved, they died, after weeks in their company, at last sunk in, piercing the mental shield the actor had unknowingly erected to keep his sanity. With a supreme effort, not wanting to unman himself before his flock, he locked down his face in the pose he thought of as classic icy Ned.

Medger Cerwyn, the lord closest to him at the observation point, misread not Ned's reaction. "Oh, it's not so bad as it looks, my Lord. The Hornwood banners struck early, true, but only a mite. None of those scum will escape, what did you call it earlier? The Bag?"

The Hornwoods had lost some souls. And later the Boltons. And then the Glovers. And a day later a few Ryswells, followed by Cerwyns and Karstarks and more Glovers and more Boltons. Today men sworn directly to Winterfell fell beneath the swords, arrows, and spears of the Westerlands. They all manfully, dutifully marched and counter marched and charged resolutely to their dooms, not knowing what trick their liege lord intended to at unleash upon the Lannister horde in order to defeat it.

Sean remembered the terms 'operational security,' 'interior lines,' 'strategic offense, tactical defense.' Only the four greatest lords leading this host, Bolton, Hornwood, Cerwyn, and Glover, knew what lay up not Ned's sleeve. Unfortunately its greatest weakness lay in that it depended upon the aid of the dark hearted, ancient Lord of the Twins. David, the crotchety Argus Filch of Potter fame, held not one candle of vileness compared to the evil he felt when he first met Walder Frey.

"My Lord!" My Lord!" voices shouted urgently behind him.

He swirled his mount around. "What?!" he cried into the oncoming dusk.

"Banners, my Lord!"

"Whose?"

"Frey and Tallhart, my Lord!"

He slumped with relief in his saddle. If the pontoon bridge he'd been promised was in place, they'd get a chance to flank Tywin Lannister with the majority of the Northern army. And the aristo-fascist bastard wouldn't have a clue 'til it was too late.

"_Father!" a girl's voice cried excitedly._

_He'd barely dismounted before the force of nature known as Arya Stark barreled into him, almost knocking him on his sorry actor's ass. He grinned down at her, rubbing her wild mane of hair, making it more unkempt, if that was even possible. He missed his daughters; Lorna, Molly, and Evie, frightfully. He intended to spoil this gem mercilessly._

"_Ned," called out that sweet voice in gentle chastisement._

_He looked forward to forgetting all responsibilities that night as he rolled around in the sleeping hides with the insatiable red head who was his lady wife. 'Well, hopefully not that much of a lady,' he thought to himself with smug satisfaction. There was a trick he learned from a costumes assistant back in New Zealand that he intended to try out on Catelyn once the candles were out._


	4. Chapter 4

_He felt Cat's fingers run lightly down his hairy chest._

"_You've changed, Ned," she exhaled softly in his ear. Her sweaty, naked body pressed tight against him._

_He captured her hand, nibbling at the delicate finger tips before plastering a wet kiss on her palm, right over her horrible scar. 'Why did birds always want to talk?' he wondered. He talked for a living damn it, so he clearly didn't have a problem with emoting or communicating. He sighed softly, admitting the lie of it; four failed marriages maybe, slightly, indicated he did have a problem 'communicating'. 'But this is a fucking arse backward medieval world and I'm the top cock,' he complained to himself. 'Can't she just be happy I'm paying attention to her and shut up about it?' He quickly pondered what answer to actually give. To leverage 'the miracle of the Old Gods,' as he called it, for the explanation? To jolly her out of whatever mood she was in? Certainly not tell her the truth! When in doubt, stay in character he decided. "Yes," he answered as minimalist Ned, which happened to be closer to actual Sean than he cared to admit, and bent his neck to kiss the soft hair on her lovely head._

_In response, she rolled on top of him, resting her delightfully full breasts on his bare skin. In the dark, illuminated by only what glow of the red comet slipped in through the cracks of the tent walls, he caught the barest flicker from the whites of her eyes. She was staring at him, intently. He said nothing in response to her wordless search of his face, just slid an appropriately tender look on to his mug while enjoying the contact with her nubile body._

"_You're … somehow … not so hard a man to the world; more solicitous of me, yet strangely … more distant, Ned," Catelyn stated, her tone a perplexed, but not unpleasant one. "Won't you let me in?" she whispered plaintively._

'_She's right clever alright,' he thought ruefully. 'Can't easily fool a wife.' Noting the thickness returning to the already well-used member trapped against her surprisingly still taut belly, Sean flashed his best boyish grin. "I beg to differ my sweet lady. I seem to be quite hard, and drawing closer and closer to you."_

_She giggled at his quip. Taking that as his cue, he swept his arms around her, drawing her in for a conversation ending kiss … and most likely something even more intimate._

"Ned!" the woman on the gang plank burst out, upon spying him by the edge of the bank.

The gorgeous red head throwing decorum to the wind to barrel straight down at him could be none other than Catelyn. Cat. His not wife. The not Michelle. A bit younger than Michelle's mid-forties, probably late thirties. Michelle was a fine looking bird, but this. This! 'Wow!' he thought. In the split second left him, he wondered for the umpteenth time how exactly he truly appeared to these people, to her. Himself, the 'Show Ned'? George's 'Book Ned'? Some amalgam of the two? What? All he knew for sure was that his Sheffield United '100% Blades' and elven '9' from the Fellowship tattoos now just looked like oddly shaped scars.

And then the amazing creature leapt straight into his arms; wrapping her legs around his waist, crying, laughing, and smothering him in kisses.

'Yes, decorum is definitely out the window!' He eagerly returned her embrace, tasting lips of honey and the promise of sin.

Almost immediately a mighty cheer went up from the hundreds of northmen sharing the shore of the Red Fork. The cacophony of raucous whoops, wolf whistles, and ribald jokes finally seemed to penetrate Catelyn's roiling brain and she stopped mid kiss; letting go of not Ned's lower lip and turning a shade of red from embarrassment. She unclenched her legs and started to slide off him.

"Not so fast," Sean chortled, sweeping an arm under her saucy bum; holding her fast to him so he could plant one last deep, wet, passionate kiss on this amazing auburn tressed goddess, before finally releasing her.

"My lord, I … I …" she stuttered softly from confusion and pleasure.

"You are my wife, my lady love," he answered huskily, reaching up a hand to gently caress her cheek, neck, and flowing curls. "And suffered a lifetime's worth of tragedy on my behalf this past half year. No one begrudges you a little joy, Cat." He smiled. "Me least of all."

She tilted her neck to look up at him with utter adoration. Her eyes glistened with tears of happiness. Then she wrapped her arms around him and buried her face in his chest.

He returned the hug. When he felt her breath return to something like normal, he bent down and whispered in her ear, "How's Robb?"

Cat's head snapped back, almost clipping his chin. "Oh Ned, he's fine, fine. You'll be so proud. He's become a man grown now; just like his father," she said with fierce pride. Then just as suddenly doubt and fear shattered her happiness, smashing the armor of her composure. "Sansa? Arya?" she squeaked.

He dropped on a duly concerned look. "Sansa's in King's Landing. She's been mostly well treated. But when … the Lannisters," and he'd had to bite back what he, not Ned, really wanted to call those sick bastards, "… when they hear of the twin defeats of the Kingslayer and the Old Lion, they'll have her beaten and whipped, or worse."

Catelyn unleashed a single heartrending sob. She understood what 'worse' meant. "And Arya?"

"She escaped the city in a caravan of recruits for the Wall."

Not Michelle looked confused. "With you?"

Not Ned shook his head no.

"Is she here with you?" she asked hopefully.

He shook his head no again.

"Then how? ... Then how do you know?"

He put on his kindest, most sincere face. "It's a very long story, Cat. You'll scarcely believe a word of it when I find the time to tell you the whole tale. But please, have faith in this as you do in the love I hold for our daughters; the Old Gods, in saving me, sent visions of the past, the present, and even the future. The caravan of black brothers is heading north on the Kingsroad, but is being pursued by gold cloaks. I've sent what riders I could spare in search of them. God … Gods willing, she will be returned to us."

Catelyn nodded her understanding. "And what hope is there for Sansa?"

"Chaos still runs rampant in the Riverlands, but the Lannisters are a broken force. Between those marched here and what Robb holds in Riverrun, we have over twenty thousand prisoners. Your brother must quickly gather as many of his banners as he can and then come here with Robb's cavalry. After that, we march on King's Landing, take back Sansa, and set Stannis on the Iron Throne."

His wife, not wife began to look sheepish and mutter in a low breath.

Sean laughed. "I know already, the Old Gods you see. That damned ugly Greatjon went and proclaimed Robb the King of the North, didn't he?"

Catelyn gasped in amazement.

Not Ned reveled in playing the Game of Thrones with house money. "Don't worry luv. How can Robb become King when his dear old da still breaths? Besides, isn't the bigger problem that the fool Renly has gone and declared himself King with the aid of Highgarden?"

Not Michelle's eyes widened in complete surprise.

"You did capture the Kingslayer in the Whispering Woods, didn't you?"

She nodded, rendered mute by his seeming omniscience.

"Good. Cersei would trade just about anything to get back her lover, and father of her children," Sean said with satisfaction.

Catelyn gasped yet again.

"_Yes, yes. Oh, Ned. Oh, Ned. Oooooooooooooooooh," Catelyn moaned, thrashing about in the throws of another orgasm._

_He sped up his pace, the urgency to match her explosion almost too much for him to bear. The fact she called him another's name didn't bother him in the least. Very quickly not Ned's eyelids fluttered. His toes curled. "oooooophhhhhh," he rumbled, spending inside her until his seed leaked out onto her downy, natural red hair._

_Despite more than a score of intimate encounters with her, the next part was always a difficult judgment call on how exactly to handle it, all the more so since Cat had memories of what the real Ned would have done. How long to stay in before withdrawing. He waited a bit, she never seemed to mind his weight on her. When he felt himself shrink, flesh tugging lightly against flesh as his cock naturally started to retract itself, he made his move and started to shift off her._

"_No," his wife/not wife called out sleepily. "Stay in me Ned."_

_He stifled a sigh and focused on his success at distracting her. 'If the only way to dodge pesky questions from this'un is to keep shagging her brains out, I'll die a happy man,' Sean thought._

_As she drifted off to sleep beneath him, not Ned plotted out the script for the next day in his head. Scene 1: The Kingslayer goes on display. Scene 2: Patrol the encampment; let the men see you care and make sure everyone's obeying the new shit laws. 'I'm not about to let myself die from cholera or any other nasty bad hygiene disease,' he swore to himself. Scene 3: Reject Cersei's first parley attempt and send back my requirements. Scene 4: Check with the lords on any likely progress towards bribing part of the garrison. 'No, better make that Scene 2,' he thought. Scene 5: Say hello to Cersei's new envoys, Varys and Littlefinger._

_Sean spent long hours into the night contemplating just how he would handle those two particular crap weasels. Just how much honor would not Ned show to them?_


	5. Chapter 5

_The soft call of his squire woke Sean from a pleasant dream, filled with a sense of well-being. This time, in his dream, Boromir fought the orcs at Parth Galen and lived! Aragorn/Viggo, Legolas/Orlando, and Gimli/John came upon him saving Merry/Dom and Pippin/Billy from those subhuman cannibals. He had redeemed himself for trying to take the Ring from Frodo/Elijah. Then doubt crept in. With the Fellowships still whole, would they chase after Frodo? Could the Ring still subvert him? Who would go raise the Ents against Isengard? Who would aid Theoden/Bernie and Eowyn/Miranda against Saruman/Chris?_

"_Shit," he whispered, suddenly overwhelmed with thoughts of Cersei, Varys, Littlefinger, Balon, Daenerys, dragons, the Wall, and Others. "I can royal fuck things over." He fought to bolster his resolution. "Don't muck it up, mate," he declared._

_Catelyn twitched in her sleep at the sound of his familiar voice. The reddish light infiltrating the tent, this time from the rising sun and not the eerie Red Comet, cast an enchanting glow on her. He felt a part of him twitch too. 'Down boy,' he chided himself. 'You're not some teenaged prat.' And at that moment his wife/not wife sighed and turned, unveiling a coquettish look on her slumbering, angelic face. The sleeping hide slipped down, revealing a lovely breast capped by an engorged nipple._

_As he gawked in amazement at her body, that part of him started to do more than twitch. "God, you're like the MILF of the North," he exhaled._

"_My Lord?" came the soft voice of Merle, the second cousin twice removed of Wyman Manderly, who he'd taken on as his squire two months earlier at White Harbor._

"_Coming," he grumbled, quietly leaving the sleeping chamber for the anteroom of his oversized tent._

_Merle placed the slop bucket in front of Sean and he took a good, hard piss. That had taken some getting used to, the lack of privacy for so many functions. At least he no longer froze up in situations where his 'modern' sensibilities would be tipped on their end. He'd actually killed a man with his own hand! Let alone gave the orders that caused the deaths of thousands more._

_The portly youth held out thick leather pants for not Ned to put on, slipped first a silk shirt and then leather armor over his head, and finally strapped on belt, sword, and various accoutrements of biker gang looking chain mail. Sean at least stepped into his boots himself. Actors were a coddled lot, he admitted; but a true Yorkshire man, even a rich pampered one like himself, had limits to what he'll allow another bloke to do for him._

_He strode out of his tent to find his New Model Staff of lordly sons already gathered and waiting. Many of them had originally been Robb's company of personal guards on the lad's clever drive to retake Riverrun. Here, in front of King's Landing, they represented the future. Still young enough to learn new things; and equally important, of high enough birth to be taken seriously by the motley collection of truculent Northern and Riverland barbarian warlords pledged to not Ned. Someday these lads would inherit important holdings, make life or death decisions, and hopefully follow Winterfell's lead in all things. If he was to improve this shithole of a world, he and someday Robb after him would need their enthusiastic assistance._

"_Is everyone here, Ser Olyvar?" he asked._

_The umpteenth offspring of the vile Walder Frey coughed nervously. Thank god a few of that evil bastard's fruit had fallen very far from the tree that spawned them. The eighteen year old had more than earned the knighthood Sean granted to him, and was making a fine Chief Aide de Camp. "Ahhhh, I believe Lord Robb is still coming."_

_Sean didn't know whether to smile or frown. As heir of Winterfell, the boy needed to set a better example than this with his peer group and future chief banners, not that they didn't respect and love the hero of the Whispering Woods already. But to be fair by Sean's own earthly upbringing, Robb was on his unfortunately, very disjointed honeymoon. Undoubtedly the lad had spent the night peeling and eating his luscious peach of a bride, Roslin, another far fallen fruit from Walder Frey's poisoned loins._

Thankfully his trotting horse hid from view the shakes galloping through Sean's body, as he and the twenty Manderly mermen accompanying him rode under escort through the portcullis into the castle on one bank of the Green Fork. His nerves eased when the first person he saw upon entering the courtyard was a bluff forty old year old man in armor wearing the three pine tree coat of arms of House Tallhart. He directed his horse and excruciatingly sore arse straight for the warrior.

"My Lord!" the man shouted, joy on his face. "Praise the Old Gods, you've returned to us."

"Well met, Lord Helman," Sean responded. If possible, the man's body puffed out further and his eyes gleamed even more. 'Shit, did I just promote this stiff from a mere Ser? God damn it, George! Why did you have to make Westeros so complicated?' "But there is little time. How many days ago did young Robb and my lady wife cross the Twins?"

"Why … six days ago, my Lord," he responded, startled by not Ned's bluntness.

Sean held up one hand and started counting off fingers while dredging up from memory the show's plot primer. Some overly dedicated staff member with too much time and not enough of a dating life had thankfully taken the time to include a planned shoot scene by planned shoot scene timeline matched to the book's chronology in one of the appendices. "Pray tell me, and did Lord Bolton leave that same time for the Kingsroad?"

"Yes, my Lord," Helman Tallhart answered.

"How many men went with him?" Sean demanded, the urgency clear in his voice.

The Master of Torrhen's Squares eyebrows bobbled a moment, taken aback by the rapid fire questions. "Ahhh," he drawled a moment, collecting his thoughts. "With all of Lord Robb's … with all of your foot, my Lord, except those four hundred left me to keep watch on … I mean to aid Lord Frey in defending the Twins. And about five hundred horse as well."

"Praise the gods, there's still a chance," he sighed. Now he knew _this Westeros_ was novel based, not derived from the show's script. 'Does that make all this any more real or me less crazy?' he wondered. To save on budget, the screen writers had changed the Battle of the Green Fork into a true feint by the North, probably a smarter move than what George wrote, sending only a few thousand men against Tywin Lannister. Then to scrimp even further, the producers hadn't even allowed an actual battle to be filmed; they simply had Peter's character knocked out right before the start of the fight. Unfortunately, not Ned couldn't so easily avoid a deadly scuffle. He just hoped the plan for this contingency that he'd thought up on the long arse pounding ride here wouldn't completely bollix things up. Let alone get himself killed!

"A chance for what, my Lord," Ser(?), Lord(?) Helman asked with evident concern.

"To save Lord Bolton from disaster! Take me to Lord Frey!" he commanded. He suddenly noticed, much like the butterflies he felt right before the curtain rose, now that he was on stage and acting, his nerves had disappeared.

_He'd gotten a synopsis on the night's activities. Ser Olyvar, when did he have time to sleep?, had even pulled together a summary on where the first attempt's to secretly suborn the gold cloaks manning the city walls looked most promising. As the report trailed off, Robb finally stumbled into the meeting._

_Not Ned put on his unhappy Ned face. "Lord Robb, I am pleased you found the time to join us this morning," he cut icily._

_The drowsy, pleased expression instantly snapped off the lad's face. "I .. I'm sorry fa .. aa .. my Lord."_

_Sean bobbed his head in acknowledgement. "I intended to do this job myself, but with Lord Bolton already to show off the Kingslayer," and he jerked a thumb towards the twenty foot tall platform sitting just outside the newly started siege line. "I fear my presence is needed elsewhere. Do you feel up to handling this chore?"_

_Robb straightened his back, putting a serious, manful look on his face. "Yes, my Lord. I'll see to it."_

_Not Ned let a wisp of smile show. "Good. Make a survey of the camp. Check to make sure the waste trenches have been dug in accordance with the directions I commanded. Ensure no one is drawing water from any source within a hundred yards of any trench. If you see any signs of a failure in shit discipline, you're to make that section's leader wished he was swinging his cock at the Wall instead of using it to piss wherever he Gods damned well felt like it here. Understand?" he snapped._

_The lad visibly deflated gave a prompt, "Yes, my Lord."_

_The rest of the New Model Staff may have been amused at Robb's discomfort, but smartly refrained from expressing it._

"_Dismissed." And off the actor turned war waging homicidal maniac walked in order to give his next performance of the day._

As he walked into the drafty, dim hall in the Water Tower of the Twins, Sean found the ancient, conniving lord surrounded by his daughters and those of his male offspring either too young or too incompetent for war.

"Lord Stark, welcome. You'll pardon an old man for not rising to greet such an illustrious, noble lord, and soon to be kin."

The revolting sound of the bastard's voice matched his abhorrent appearance. Viscerally, perhaps for the first time ever, Sean knew evil existed. He wanted to flee. He needed to cut a deal.

"You'll pardon me, Lord Frey, if I don't abide by the terms of the bargain you made with my lady wife."

The primeval serpent's eyes widened, then just as suddenly hooded themselves warily; focusing on not Ned. Deciding whether he was hunter or prey. "My Lord," he said with a dry, brittle rattle. "You were imprisoned. Oaths were made before the Seven. The strength of House Frey has aided the North. Where is the honor? Where is Lord Stark's honor in breaking his lady wife's sworn word?"

"Lady Catelyn met with you on the twenty fifth. I arrived in White Harbor on the twenty fourth? There was no longer a question of imprisonment. You may ask any of my Manderly banners. And what is the Seven to me? I am of the North. We worship the Old Gods. The Old Gods who freed me, returned me, set me on the path I must follow."

The withered creature smiled, correctly scenting the possibility of an opening. "Since you are here, praise your Old Gods, then there is no need for my banners to aid the North in freeing you, is there Lord Stark?"

Sean didn't blink, didn't respond at all. The presence of Helman Tallhart beside him and the hundreds of Northerners within the Twins provided all the evidence necessary that the Freys could not so easily turn their backs on the Starks.

"But you spoke of a path. Perhaps there is some way my House could assist you on it."

Not Ned nodded. "The men under Lord Bolton march into Tywin Lannister's trap. I would spring a trap of my own to beard the Old Lion."

"That would be a fine trick, if you could pull it off, Lord Stark," the snake agreed.

Sean showed a hint of a smile. "You could help me make it so," he said. "The Twins sits on the Green Fork. You must have access to boats."

The scaly bastard's eyes unhooded, shining with greed and victory. "Perhaps. Perhaps. What would you do with them?"

"Make two temporary bridges across the river, a day's march apart from each other. The boats for the first bridge must wait in secret on the west bank of the Green Fork until the Lannisters march past on their way north. The first bridge must be near a place on the east bank where the Kingsroad narrows through rough, hilly lands."

"And the Lion's knights would have to charge piecemeal uphill onto northern spears," Walder Frey cackled with malevolent glee. "Yes, I know of such a place. You're a sly warrior, Lord Stark. But are you still honorable? Will you keep to your lady wife's terms!?"

Not Ned gave a long pause. "Yes … and no."

"What?" the ancient serpent hissed.

"I will choose my son's wife. Here and now. Within the hour. And whomever I select will leave on the morrow for Riverrun, following the route my son took south from here."

For once Walder Frey looked confused. "There has been no word that Riverrun has fallen."

"The Old Gods speak to me, Lord Frey," not Ned boomed, putting on his best biblical voice. "Tomorrow, on the dawn of the new year, Robb shall capture the Kingslayer. And the day after he shall break the siege of Riverrun, drowning and slaughtering lions by the thousands. So it is written!"

The old snake nodded his head in seeming agreement, wariness again hooded his eyes. "And what of my boy Elmar and your girl Arya?"

"That betrothal is over."

Lord Frey scowled.

"A Frey shall marry one of my daughters, worry not Lord Frey, I give you my word. But I shall choose who marries either Sansa or Arya. I will watch your sons carefully as they trod down the path with me. And whichever one earns my greatest trust, I will bequeath with both a daughter and a new lordship crafted from out of Winterfell's domains."

The evil bastard tried to haggle further, but Sean simply gave him the icy Ned glare. Soon enough the parade of eligible, if not so nubile, daughters and granddaughters and even great granddaughters began. At the naming of 'Roslin', he called a halt to the proceedings and pointed at the fresh faced, pert enough girl. "Her," he said. 'Let's hope Robb sees in you the same things George had Edmure see in you,' he thought. "Have her on the road south tomorrow, Lord Frey. Now kindly arrange for fresh horses, a map of the Green Fork, and someone to ride with me who can show me where the boat bridges will be built. You have seven days, Lord Frey. Seven days. I'm off to find Lord Bolton." With a sense of relief, he left the serpent's den. Only time would tell if he'd truly avoided getting bitten.

_A bevy of lords and one golden prisoner stood on the raised platform. Sean freely admitted to himself, despite the last eight weeks hard use, Jaime Lannister still outshone every man jack of them. The son of a bitch oozed charisma. _

"_My Lord," the greying man protested. "You can't set the Kingslayer free!" The pain and anger in Lord Karstark's voice was palpable._

"_Rickard, look about you," not Ned said reasonably. "We pen in King's Landing by land, and in a few days King Stannis shall block them by sea. Where can they go?"_

_The Lord of the Karhold expressed his dissatisfaction with a deep growl._

_Sean simply shrugged. "You'll have ample time avenge your sons deaths on the Kingslayer once the walls have fallen."_

"_I'd be happy to give any of you a fair fight right now," the Kingslayer declared. "You needn't even unlock me." He shook his manacles. "Just give me a blade and I'll do the rest." He haughtily looked around at the Northern and Riverland lords gathered near him, before setting his eye on not Ned. "Your leg looks healthy enough now Stark. Dare to test me?"_

_Sean smirked. "Jon, rattle his chains."_

_Greatjon Umber looked a bit confused at his lord's order, than a giant, unchained smile of understanding split his huge, hairy puss._

_The clanking of the shackles drowned out the sound of the arrogant cock's bones knocking together._

_When the Greatjon at last released the Kingslayer's neck, letting him drop the foot to the platform's floor, the prisoner barely kept upright; staggering from dizziness and having his brains sloshed around inside his pretty skull._

_Sean stepped up and pleasantly said, "Now, mind your manners."_

_The Kingslayer responded by spitting on not Ned._

_A juicy wad dribbled down his shirt. Rage boiled up inside the lad from Sheffield. He punched the sister fucking shit as hard as he could in the gut._

_A weak "ooohf" escaped the Kingslayer's lips._

_Sean grimaced. His hand hurt. 'What kind of abs does this bastard have?' he wondered. Then suddenly he saw stars. The son of a bitch had head butted him._

_Immediately Greatjon and several others latched on to the Kingslayer, restraining him._

_Sean swiped a hand above his eyebrow. Blood. Sean surged forward and bobbed his head._

_Crack!_

_A gush of crimson splashed out of the Kingslayer's broken nose._

_Surveying the damage didn't fully satisfy not Ned. He jerked his knee up._

_The "OOOOOooooooohhhhhhfffffff" that burst from the Kingslayer's mouth was anything but weak._

"_Try to fuck Cersei with your tackle now," he snarled._

_All the lords, even Rickard Karstark, howled with glee and made coarse jokes as the golden boy tried unsuccessfully to cup his brutalized parts through piss stained pants._

_As Sean started to calm down, he thought, 'don't underestimate these people. They're all crazy and stone cold killers to boot.'_


	6. Chapter 6

_Robb wiggled out from between two of the long, sharp stakes fronting the developing trench and bulwark of the siege line, and marched over to the foot of the tall platform showcasing Jaime Lannister to his sister and the rest of King's Landing. Trotting near him came Grey Wind. _

'_Jesus,' Sean thought for the thousandth time. 'The beast's as big as a warg. Peter's warg, not George's. Warg means something else here entirely. Well almost entirely, it still involved wolves .. sort of … some of the time,' he thought, trying to wrap his head around the intricate universe the stout white haired author had created, and which unbelievable had come to real life for Sean._

_As usual, and for which the actor was entirely grateful, Grey Wind, upon entering his presence took on a submissive posture. After surviving the Battle of the Green Fork, not Ned's greatest dread had been about his first meeting with the dire wolf. Portraying a character believably, taking on the role as second skin, was an actor's goal. And he thought of himself as a damned fine one. Certainly good enough to bluff his way through with most of the hayseeds who automatically assumed by sight that he was Eddard Stark. Yet, if any being could expose him as a doppleganger of the Lord of Winterfell, he had worried it would be that creature; and more frightfully, that it wouldn't take too kindly to his usurpation of the role as Robb's father. Thankfully the beast seemed even more wary of him than he was of it. In fact, he'd become so used to Grey Wind's presence that he no longer even sweated profusely around the dire wolf._

"_My Lord," his heir said stoically, dropping a quick bob of his head in respect. "My lords," he repeated respectfully, sharing quick looks with the leaders who only weeks earlier had followed him as their liege._

"_Robb," he answered. "Any problems in the camp?" not Ned asked._

_A few of the Northerners looked like they wanted to snicker, word had spread quickly that the boy had gotten on his father's shit list, so to speak. But they'd all learned during the march south from Castle Darry that Lord Stark now took his, and everyone else's, shit very seriously; deathly so._

"_No, my Lord. All seems properly laid out in accordance with your laws of waste disposal," he said with the solemnity of a teen acting as one year's older._

"_Good," he responded. "Come walk with me Robb, it appears the Dragon Gate is about to open and reveal Cersei Lannister's first choose to come parlay with us. Let's see who it is."_

"_Yes, my Lord," he answered enthusiastically, realizing by not Ned's show of favoritism that he was no longer in his father and lord's outhouse._

_The pair, followed naturally by Grey Wind, strode fifty feet closer to the immense walls of the city before pausing._

"_You're not going to be late again, are you, Robb?" he asked in a quiet, kind voice_

"_No, father. I swear I shan't," not Rich promised fervently._

"_Good. I believe you. I don't mind how frequently you practice with Roslin at making me a grandchild. Just make sure it doesn't happen again on my time. It makes the both of us look poorly in front of our banners. Understand?"_

_Robb bit his lip at the mild chastisement and then nodded his head in vigorous agreement._

The four unhappy faces tepidly shook their heads up and down, acknowledging their lord's command, but clearly revealing how opposed in their hearts they were to an order that ran contrary to the very ethos of battle leadership in the ruthless, medieval North. Sean didn't care. He meant to stay alive in this hellish place. And to do that he needed to win; not just today but the next day and the next and the next, until the Lannisters and all the other crazy bastards in his way were wiped out. To accomplish that he needed his lords, brutal men trained and smarter than him in the ways of war to live; even that cold leech Bolton.

But not Ned knew a few tricks too thanks to his many military roles and vociferous reading habits, and he would use all that he'd learned. So despite the complaints, his order of battle and rules of engagement were never up for debate. Lord Roose would controll the Dreadfort, Rills, and Barrowland levies on the far left. Lord Medger would direct the Cerwyn, Winterfell, and White Harbor banners on the far right. Lord Robbett would command the foot from the Deepwood, Torrhen's Square, and the Twins next to Lord Roose's troops. And Lord Halys would give the orders to the men of Hornwood, the Karhold, and Widow's Watch; who would hold the line between Lord Medger and Lord Robbett's warriors. Each lord was given fifty precious cavalry, charged to hold his quarter of the line from within the relativity safety of his section's designated reserve of two hundred troops, and commanded, under pain of flaying, to never, ever break the shield wall in order to charge the enemy. Sean, like every good Englishman, even a lad from the old Danelaw, knew why William, and not Harold, had won at Hastings.

The actor playing at live war swallowed back on the bile edging up his throat and trying to spew out his mouth. He would command the main reserve, just over a thousand tough as nails bastards from Last Hearth and two hundred horse. Satisfied by a last look, not Ned dismissed the four generals and spurred his piebald mount toward his own designted position behind the main line. The banners of House Umber waited by the tor which stood next to the Kingsroad, right where it passed over the top of the ridge on which the Northern army waited.

Seeing his approach, several mailed riders wearing unchained giant surcoats trotted out from the unwashed mass of far, far northern barbarians gathered about the rock outcrop. "My Lord," rumbled the deep bass of the senior Umber captain, a hard ugly man named Bofor. "The lads ain't taking it well you don't trust'em to stand in the shield wall with the other houses."

The other five blood loving killers accompanying Bofor harrumphed their agreement.

"Aye," he responded coolly, fixing them with his icy Ned glare. He'd gotten quite good at 'the look,' or at least he surmised so based on everyone's reaction when he whipped it out. This instance wasn't any different. The group tried to hide their uncomfortable squirms as he fixed eyes on each one for a long second. He said no more, just kept riding. They swung in around to join him, keeping mum; the debate apparently won by 'the look.'

The large crowd of be-weaponed men in front of him parted, a few giving cheers at his appearance, others grumbling, and most simply speechless. He could smell a hint of alcohol in the air. More than one writer he'd read had talked of the need by even brave men to stiffen their nerve with a nip or ten of something.

Sean ignored them all, moving forward, deeper into their mass, wishing he could still his own jitters with a shot of something. When he reached the crest, he at last brought the black and white spotted war horse to a stop. Of all the mounts he'd straddled since his mysterious, inexplicable arrival in this maddening place, Sean liked this one best. He just hoped the stallion would keep its wits when the fighting started and not throw him, bit him, trample him, or endanger him in basically any way.

Not Ned looked south down the road, away from the enemy's van gathering into a massed column at the northern foot of the rise. He felt a moment of pleasure, even to his untrained eye the terrain screamed bloody murder at an attacker. The deceitful bastard Walder Frey had done well recommending this gold plated bitch of a narrowing, rising front for the North to make their stand against a Lannister assault.

"Any word from Ser Kyle?" he asked loudly, but to no one in particular.

"Everything still clear, my Lord," Bofors responded. "Just a few score more stragglers killed and couple of supply wagons he's liberated and sending up. Hope there's some ale in'em. Thirsty work a battle."

Ser Kyle Condon commanded the last fifty horse troops not Ned had in his force. They were scouting miles to his rear, making sure no unaccounted for Westerlands force was sneaking up on them from behind. Sean wasn't about to let his chance at victory get yanked away by a surprise buggering up the arse.

"Men of the Last Hearth," he suddenly, dramatically boomed in his loudest, firmest stage voice. "There!" And Sean yanked out his sword, pointing it toward the Lion banners a mile away. "Our foe. They will charge us, and break like waves against our shield wall." Not Ned jabbed the sword at the long line forming at the narrowest point on the slope, a few hundred yards below them. "But they will come again and come again, until the Mountain or the Strongboar or the Old Lion himself makes a breach among our brethren. Then Men of Umber, then, we here shall charge down upon them; to stem the tide and assure victory. If … if by doing so … we are marked to die, we are enow to do our North loss; and if to live, the fewer men, to the Men of the Last Hearth, the greater share of honor. The Old Gods will, I pray thee, wish not one man more to aid us. I am not covetous of gold, nor care I who doth feed upon my cost; it yearns me not if men my surcoats wear. Such outward things dwell not in my desires. But if it be a sin to covet honor, I am the most offending soul alive. Wish not one more man! I would not lose so great an honor as one man more methinks would share from me. Proclaim it through my host, that he which hath no stomach to this fight, let him depart. We would not die in that man's company that fears his fellowship to die with us. He that shall live this day, and see old age will yearly on the vigil feast his neighbors, and say 'Tomorrow is the Green Fork.' Then will he strip his sleeve and show his scars, and say 'These wounds I had at the Green Fork.' Old men forget; yet all shall be forgot. But he'll remember, with advantages, what feats he did that day. Then shall our names, familiar in his mouth as household words – Ned Stark, Bolton, Cerwyn, Glover, Frey, Hornwood, Karstark, Flint, Manderly, and most honored of all, the giants of Umber – be in their flowing cups freshly remembered. This story shall the good man tell his son; from this day to the end of the world. We in it shall be remembered. We few, we happy few, we band of brothers; for he today that sheds his blood with me shall be my brother. And gentle Sers in Westeros now-a-bed shall think themselves accursed they were not here, and hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speak that fought with us this day beside the Green Fork."

A roar, louder than any crowd Sean had e'er before in his life heard, burst forth until his ears rang so hard he could not hear another sound.

_Cough. Cough._

_The slight, stooped, older man, accompanied by only a white cloak wearing knight and a squire bearing the white parley flag, smiled with nervous expectantion down from his horse at not Ned. The other two looked more anxious than anything else. Most likely because Sean had taken Robb and Grey Wind to this warm up act for the show he anticipated staring in come the afternoon. A dire wolf brought a lot of leverage to a negotiating table._

"_And you are?" he said gruffily, eyes narrowed suspiciously_

_The toff blinked, looking confused and unsure of the situation. "Ahhhh …" Cough. Cough. "Lord Rosby, my … my Lord Stark." Said in tone to imply of course Sean couldn't possibly have forgotten who he was. At least the fool _

"_Lord Rosby. I take it you were there at Baelor's Sept when Joffrey Water's ordered tongueless Payne to chop my head off?"_

_The consumptive prat didn't seem to know how to respond to the question. His smile grew wider and more nervous until he stuttered out "K-k-k-king Joffrey …"_

"_Is the illegitimate offspring of the perverse, adulterous union between Cersei Lannister and her twin brother Jaime," Sean cut in hard. Then he smiled cruelly, "But we're not here today to talk about the bastard Joffrey's status. I'll leave that to King Stannis when he arrives from Dragonstone. I do, however, want to discuss what is to be done with the Kingslayer."_

_Cough. Cough. "Yes, his Grace .." Cough. "… has instructed me to verify whether the prisoner you hold is," Cough. "as your herald announced, Ser Jaime. And if so," Cough, "… to discover your terms for returning his most beloved 'uncle' to him." Now finished speaking, the minor lordling dabbed at the dots of yellow phlegm his lung wracking exertions had retched up onto his lips._

"_And are you satisfied?" not Ned demanded._

"_Well …" Cersei's easily replaceable diplomat tarried._

_Sean rolled his eyes and turned to the white cloak. "You, which of Cersei's honorless lapdogs are you?"_

_The blond haired man scowled and reached for his pommel._

_Grey Wind snarled, exposing very large, very sharp teeth._

_The gauntleted hand quickly slipped off the blade handle._

"_Well …" Sean said quietly, with enough cold in his breath he thought he might see ice vapor slipping out his mouth. 'Damn, I'm getting good at Ned,' he congratulated himself._

"_Ser Preston," the armored knight answered, trying to sound haughty but coming across more as a petulant child._

"_Ah yes. Forgive me, since the Old Gods reattached my head to my shoulders, my memory's become a bit spotty. Now take a long, hard look. If you don't recognize him, I'll have Lord Bolton cut off one of his fingers and bring it to. Maybe you can recognize your brother that way."_

_The backstabbing brute gazed up and the figure on the scaffold and frowned._

"_Bring him closer to the edge!" Sean shouted._

_Clasping the Kingslayer firmly by the neck, the Greatjon brought the prisoner to, and then over the edge. To the credit of his gigantic, and undoubtedly still very sore, balls, Jaime Lannister didn't kick or fuss at all as he dangled twenty plus feet in the air._

_Preston Greenfield gulped and then yelled excitedly, "That's him! That's him!"_

"_That's enough then Jon," the Lord of Winterfell commanded his strongest bannerman._

"_But I was just starting to enjoy the view, Stark," the Kingslayer called._

_Sean did his best to ignore the bloody arse. His own skull ached doubly for dealing with the psychopath already that morning._

_Cough. Cough. "I shall advise his Grace that your prisoner …" Cough. "… is in fact his esteemed uncle. Now what terms do you …" Cough, "… propose as sufficient to exchange Ser Jaime?"_

_Sean waited, not answering. Just staring over the city wall at the distant image of the Red Keep atop its hill. He knew the answer, but nothing like some dramatic tension; however unnecessary to the plot line, to grab people's attention and put bums in the seats._

_Cough. "My Lord … Stark," the toff prodded._

_He lowered his gaze to give the phlegmatic wretch 'the look.' He enjoyed the power of watching the man quiver. "My first condition is that I will only negotiate with members of the Small Council."_

_Lord Rosby spread his hands. "My Lord," Cough, "the Small Council is very busy."_

_Sean resisted rolling his eyes. "Which is why I will give Lords Baelish and Varys until sunset to arrive, or come morning I'll gift Cersei one of her brother's fingers."_

"_My Lord!" Rosby spluttered in protest._

"_As such high ranking dignitaries, they'll need an appropriate escort. Have Clegane bring them. That's my second condition. I hear Joffrey's promoted his hound to the Kingsguard. I want to see what a white cloak does to a dog. Now be off with you and report to your mistress."_

"_My Lord!?" Rosby wailed in complaint._

_Not Ned ignored them and turned to walk back to his flock of lords gathered around the Kingslayer's platform._

"_My Lord!?"_

"_Oh by the Seven, Rosby!" shouted Jaime Lannister, "Go tell my sister before I kill you myself."_


	7. Chapter 7

_The besieged pride of lions waited until the last vestiges of the sun dipped down to sparkle on top the dark waters of Blackwater Bay before opening the Dragon Gate to disgorge Littlefinger, the Spider, and the Hound. Sean wondered how much of the delay in meeting his preliminary negotiating conditions came from Cersei's haughty sense of gamesmanship and how much from Baelish and the eunuch trying to beg off entering the dire wolf's den. Regardless, satisfied that the three mandated characters from this production of the 'Greek Tragedy of the Iron Throne' were indeed coming, not Ned signaled to the Kingslayer's jailors to bring him off his singularly high stage and back to the interconnected pavilions Sean had had built in anticipation for the upcoming scene. The tough, arrogant Lannister prisoner wouldn't have much to say to the surprise guests he'd be stashed with while awaiting his cue from stage left. Sean stepped back inside from the descending chill into the faux hall created by the largest tent._

"_I take it, my lord husband, that at last they deign to come speak with you?" Cat asked in a seemingly placid tone._

_He gave a curt nod of his head in answer. 'Strange,' he thought. 'It's only been a month, but I can read her already;' noting the fierceness hiding just beneath the surface. Lady Catelyn Stark nee Tully had been so steamed when he first revealed Petyr Baelish's full treachery, Sean thought she might go completely mental. Even though he'd shared his plan days ago with her for this meeting, he still wasn't sure she wouldn't stick a dagger in Littlefinger's greedy little heart._

"_About time, blast them," Edmure muttered, reaching again for reassurance in his goblet._

"_Whether they know it or not, and they can't be so blind as to not see our siege lines, Lord Stark has them dangling in a cold northern wind," old Stevron Frey proclaimed._

"_Yes," whispered Roose, though how many in the tent actually heard him Sean wouldn't hazard to guess. "My Lord is full of surprises these days."_

_From the back of the tent, the Blackfish caught not Ned's eye, raised an eyebrow, and bobbed his head once towards his niece and then once more, this time toward the Leech Lord. Clearly Cat's uncle held many of the same concerns as his commander. The others in the oversized tent, including Robb, Maege, Medger, Jason, and not Ned's aide Olyvar, all either sipping at wine or chatting quietly amongst themselves, hadn't appeared to notice the brief exchange of looks._

_As Sean wandered over to his seat beside Cat, he pondered the saying, 'keep your friends close but your enemies closer,' and wondered how aptly it applied to Bolton. His ruminations were soon interrupted first by Grey Wind suddenly choosing to get far out of Sean's way; and then by the voice of his little angel._

"_Father," Arya's called from an open side flap being used by the few retainers acting as pages for the gathered lords. "Let my attend too," she wheedled. "I have to find out what's happened to Sansa. Please?"_

_Against his will, Sean's icy Ned demeanor melted, as always, in his young not daughter's presence._

Cat clutched at his arm.

He grabbed her hand and yanked hard. "Come," he commanded. The pair stumbled out of his tent. "Horses!" Sean bellowed.

Olyvar, either being a seer or having heard the rumor and anticipated his Lord's thoughts, appeared out of nowhere with a pair of horses.

Sean threw not Michelle up on her dapper roan. Unphased, she scrabbled hard at reins and stirrups to stay atop the mare.

"Where's Robb?!" he shouted.

"Getting his mount, my Lord," the Frey lad answered calmly.

Not Ned, leapt smoothly into his saddle on the graceful piebald. In the past six weeks the actor, who'd already ridden plenty thanks to his varied action and historical roles, had seen his equestrian skills leap forward tenfold. Instinctively, his body moved to spur on his horse until a hand snatched hard at his reins. He looked down in rage at his aide de camp. "What?!" he snarled.

"Not without proper escort, my Lord," Olyvar murmured quietly. "There may be lions out hunting."

Damnit, even through his sense of urgency, excitement, and anger, he realized the boy spoke the truth! Sean fought to become Ned again. "Hold!" he ordered.

"Ned?!" Cat called in anguish. "What of Arya?!"

"She'd be disappointed if we foolishly got ourselves killed in our rush to see her, my lady," not Ned replied, trying to sooth her.

He heard Hallis Mollen's stolid tone calling out for Winterfell's Household guards. Further in the background, the deeper note of Bofor's voice could be heard swearing at some men to mount faster.

Feeling his icy face reasserting itself, he continued, "Five more minutes won't matter one way or the other."

"Father!" shouted Robb, charging up on a palomino; Grey Wind as always by his side. "Is it true?! Have they found Arya?!"

_Sean knelt in front of the slight, sinewy girl. "Brave one," he called her in a soft voice. "Sansa is of your pack. And dire wolves look after their own for the pack to survive. I share both your worry and hope for your sister. But as the Stark of Winterfell, sometimes my pack is more than just you, your sister, your brothers, and your mother." He reached out a gentle hand and smoothed a tangled lock away from her face. A face that looked as much his, if not more so, than his true daughters Molly, Evie, and Lorna. As always, the thought of them tore a piece of Sean's heart. "Sometimes my pack is all of the North. These strong men here look to me to lead that pack. To do that, they must think me stronger than I really am. Do you understand?"_

_With watery eyes, Arya nodded slowly. Her unruly mane of black hair flopping about. "I can't stay," she whispered._

_The actor shook his head. "No," he whispered back._

_She turned to leave._

_Sean snatched her hand, stopping her. "Have you been practicing what Syrio taught you?" he asked._

_A faint look of pleasure slipped onto Arya's horsey, adorable face. "Yes, father. Quent and Shadd let me spar against them with Needle."_

'_They damnwell better,' Sean thought. 'That's one advantage of being medieval lord, the men don't protest an order.'_

"_Oh, and Ser Olyvar too," she added._

'_Interesting.' "What about the other things Syrio taught you?"_

_Arya frowned. "Like what, father?"_

_He smiled. "I remember hearing something about 'Swift as a deer. Quiet as a shadow.'"_

"_Yes …?" the girl said hesitantly, raising her eyebrows._

_Without moving his head, he pointedly turned his eyes towards the tent flap Arya had entered from. "Perhaps you could work on being as quiet, and unseen, as a shadow, hmmmn?"_

_Arya blinked once. Then her eyes started to widen. Just as quickly her face went still._

'_Smart child,' Sean thought._

_In a louder voice than before, but not too loud, his not daughter said in a semi-petulant tone. "Lessons? Now? Oh father!" And before turning away to storm off, she slipped him a wink._

_He stood up._

"_Is everything alright, Ned?" not Michelle called._

_Hiding a smile, he answered, "Yes."_

As Sean, not Michelle, and not Rich, accompanied by three hundred deadly northerners rode in a long column down the dirt path through rolling woodland, the space between the trees started to widen and the thickets lessen. The dull early February sky at last revealed a large open pasture of dead, yellow grass and reeds. Toward the far end forty riders sporting a Mallister silver eagle banner and a dead weirwood Blackwood banner could be seen riding on the parameter of a small convoy of near two score ragged figures walking around five ramshackle wagons. The Riverland guards gave a brief cheer and then parted, pulling back to let the grey dire wolf sigil of Winterfell through. Even over the thundering beat of hooves, not Ned heard the joyous shrieks of a child's and a mother's voice.

"Mother! Father!"

"Arya!"

Cat flew out of her saddle and swept up the scarecrow of a child into her arms and scared hands. Arya's black hair poked out here and there in what the actor took for the world's worst haircut; Yoren's successful, but damned ugly, attempt to make a waif of a girl pass for a boy King's Landing's slums.

Seeing the love glowing from mother and daughter, Sean let out a sigh of release. Arya had been the first dent in his armor of omniscience. Back by the banks of the Red Fork, the first time he'd met Catelyn, he'd awed her, by way of explaining his 'resurrection,' with all his knowledge about what had happened, was happening, and would happen in this dirty, shitty medieval place. Of course her first concern, her first query; believing every word the paragon of honor the oh so noble Eddard Stark had doled out, had been about Sansa and Arya. He'd couched Sansa's status as carefully as he could, hinting at the possible hellish deeds the psychopath Joffrey might unleash on the girl. But Arya, Arya, he'd promised not Michelle the moon. Their younger daughter was already escaped from King's Landing and Northern riders were already ranging to find Arya. Her return was imminent. Only it hadn't been. Sean hadn't remembered the script, the books, correctly. The Night Watch recruits weren't to leave King's Landing until the Red Comet appeared.

"Arya!" he shouted, now off his horse.

The girl broke out of her mother's grasp and ran at not Ned; leaping the last five feet through the air to plow right into his chest, staggering him slightly.

He swept arms around her back to hold her high and began to swing the willow wisp around in a happy, almost drunken circle. He found himself giggling, tears welling up in his eyes, caught up in the joyous reunion with a person he'd never met before. A small detached part of himself whispered in his head, 'She looks amazingly like Maisie.'

He staggered. Robb had bounded into him. Smooshing Arya between the two of them. Giving huge shouts to release his elation and months of pent up, stomach churning worry.

He staggered again. Catelyn joined the party again.

Grey Wind howled in delight.

Through the corner of his eye, Sean spied the Black Brother approaching respectfully. He carefully disentangled himself from the massed family reunion and stepped to the man who had saved Arya. "Brother Yoren."

"Lord Stark. I … I … I never thought to see you again," the grizzled, stooped wandering crow stuttered with amazement through his red, sourleaf stained teeth.

Not Ned smiled kindly, knowing the man had been at Baelor's Sept when that deed, best not dwelt on too long for sanity purposes by the lad from Sheffield, had been done. "Except decorating a spike," he snickered.

"Well …" the Black Brother first spluttered. And then he began to chuckle harder and harder. "Har … har … harr! Well, yes my Lord," he finally coughed out.

Sean tried out a knowing look and whispered for only the old man's ears to hear. "The Old Gods work in mysterious ways, Brother Yoren. Wights have attacked Castle Black, trying to kill the Lord Commander. The Seven Kingdoms are in chaos. A Red Comet flies through the sky as a portent. Dragons have hatched in Essos. The ancient enemy beyond the Wall has returned. And Mance Rayder has been proclaimed King-Beyond-The-Wall in order to lead the wildings south, far, far south, away from the Others. Winter is coming."

Yoren gulped hard at not Ned's words, swallowing his sourleaf. "What would you have me do?" the wandering crow asked, displaying not an ounce of skepticism at what he'd just been told.

"It is to you, who saved my daughter, and one of the sworn brethren of the Night's Watch that I should ask that question to, Brother Yoren," Sean answered.

The coarse, ugly, lice ridden head atop the stooped shoulders bobbed up and down as he thought on the Lord of Winterfell's words. "She's a tough bird, Arya. Shame to see a fighter like that married off to some useless, poxed lordling," he suddenly spouted, before shutting up for another minute to think.

Sean stayed quiet, letting the smart man think.

"Will the North come to the Night Watch's aid? Help us to man the long length of the Wall, like it were done a thousand years ago," the wandering crow finally proposed.

"We shall. You have my word," Sean answered easily.

Suddenly, the flapping of some banner in the wind caught the wandering crow's attention. A knowing look came upon his face. "But not today."

Yoren was no one's fool Sean observed. "No. A Lannister may always pay his debts. But so does a Stark."

A wicked smile cracked the ugly man's stained lips. He scratched at a particularly bothersome lice a moment, and said, "Can't say's I blame you. That one back there's," and the Black Brother jerked a thumb back generally in the direction of King's Landing, "a noisome little shite." The Night's Watch was sworn to stay out of the affairs of the Seven Kingdoms, so Yoren named no names.

"I do have one request to make of you," not Ned asked.

"Name it, my lord."

"You have three prisoners, if I remember correctly, came from the Red Keep's black cells. You've been keeping them chained in a wagon, I believe."

"Yes," Yoren answered dubiously.

"I would see them. I have need of them."

And so not Ned was introduced to Biter, Rorge, and Jaqen H'ghar, and asked to speak to them alone.

Addressing himself to the white and red haired man in chains, the clearly only sane one of the trio, Sean announced, "I would kill these beasts. Even at the Wall, creatures such as these would find no redemption. Their brothers would have to put them down like dogs."

"That may be, the Red God will take his due when it is time."

"And what if I thought to add your name to the Red God's due?" not Ned whispered.

The split color haired man simply tilted his eyes and stared keenly back at the actor. "I would wish otherwise, but all men must die," the prisoner at last replied.

Sean leaned in even closer. "_Valar morghulis_," he whispered.

"_Valar dohaeris_," came the equally quiet response.


	8. Chapter 8

The flap to the main entrance snapped back.

"The requested envoys from King's Landing," the voice of Galbart Glover called out sternly from the chill dusk outside, completing the duty of escorting the trio of unworthies to not Ned.

The first to appear, suspiciously leaning his head forward to check for a trap, hand tight on his sword handle, was the Hound.

Sean tried not to gawk. He'd seen horrible things at the Green Fork, even killed a man himself. Then been forced to ride for weeks beneath the rotting, flesh peeling skulls of vanquished Westerland lords festooning the tops of his triumphant Northern banners' spears. Sandor Clegane's face matched all that for ugliness; the thick pockmarked burn scars oozing red serum, the missing ear and clumps of hair, the bone showing through the gap in his check, avian predatory eyes, and a permanent, hateful scowl. 'Gods, Rory,' the actor thought. 'In makeup, you look like a cuddly puppy compared to this … this zombie.'

Mollified by what he saw within, the foul brute stepped all the way in. "Come on then," he barked to the dimly shaped figures behind him.

Petyr Baelish strode smoothly, confidently, in next.

'No Aidan this one,' the actor thought. Short and slender, yes. Chin beard and silver sprinkled hair, certainly. Smartly dressed, wearing a mockingbird pendant, of course. Attractive? Even smarmily so? Not in the least. Utterly dull, a drab accountant. Completing his assessment, 'How easy to underestimate this one,' Sean thought. But he knew better.

Littlefinger looked as if he didn't have a care in the world. He didn't even stare a split second at not Ned, nor his long yearned for lady love, Catelyn. Not a clue did the slight man betray that he was at all panicked or intimidated being in the presence of a man he watched die; and who certainly must hate him for the rather large part he played in causing said demise.

Varys shuffled in last on quick, mincing steps; each hand tucked fastidiously up the opposite arm's billowing sleeve.

Sean shivered as his goolies begged him to run and hide from this unnatural apparition. A shaved head, a smidge of plumpness, the proper clothes, and Con's brilliant acting still couldn't do justice to the off putting aura of the real live eunuch. The modern, civilized man wondered if this was only an instinctive response to being in the presence of a man who had actually had his meat and two veg chopped off.

"My Lord Stark," the Master of Whisperers announced, his voice coming across as a near shout in the dead silence permeating the tent. Realizing the loudness of his speech, he tittered nervously a moment before continuing sotto voce, "So good to see you … again. And so hale … and vital." More tiny, uneasy giggles followed. "Such an unexpected .. haha … surprise."

'Let this act of the Game of Thrones begin,' not Ned whispered to himself as a prayer, sucking up his courage. "Silence!" he roared angrily, surging out of his chair in the center of the candle lit pavilion turned audience chamber.

"I take orders from no man, not even a talking dead one," Clegane exploded defiantly; knuckles whitening on his pommel, prepared to release pitiless violence.

"Which is why I wanted you here most of all, Hound," Sean rejoined, with significantly less heat this initial declamation.

The scowl intensified, but Clegane's eyes flickered with uncertainty, surprised by not Ned's abrupt change of tack.

"Tell me, Clegane, when Joffrey orders you to beat Sansa. Do you obey like a good dog? Or do you leave it to those other so called honorable, gentle Sers of the Kingsguard to strike my daughter?"

Rage and conflict twisted Clegane's scarred, abomination of a face. His whole body clenched, fighting against itself. "No," he at last choked out.

"She lives?" Catelyn gasped, unable to stay silent any longer; her question vibrating with untold depths of feeling.

"Yes," the brute answered with less emotion, almost relief; regaining some control of his terrible self.

Cat moaned, releasing her pent up fears and hopes. A soft sigh exited the lips of several others in the tent too, Robb most of all.

"Raped?" Sean asked with an icy voice.

Clegane's eyes narrowed and his face clenched; revealing that another struggle was taking place within him, and that something horrible indeed must have happened to not Sophie. But in the end, after keeping everyone on tenterhooks, he shook his head no.

"Praise the Mother," burst not Michelle, openly beginning to weep.

"She's scarred though, isn't she?" not Ned continued. "Maimed."

A look of shame crept up on the Hound's evil visage.

"Isn't she!?" the actor demanded in his best, raised not Ned command voice.

"Yes," the Hound barked reluctantly.

Sean simply nodded his understanding; already well knowing anything was possible where the mad beast Joffrey was concerned. "Ser Olvyar," he called softly, now looking inscrutable. "Bring me and my guest here goblets of wine."

"Uh, yes, my Lord. Right away, my Lord," his startled aide responded.

If Olyvar were in fact to marry Sansa; one of the many possible finishing touches Sean had contemplated in his plans for wrapping this vicious, barbaric story up into a neat, pretty little package, then his aide de camp would need to get used to seeing scars very quickly. He stood quietly until the Hound, with suspicion and a glare that said 'I can kill you anytime I want," accepted the cup of red from Walder Frey's most worthwhile son. Then he accepted his own.

Not Ned lifted the goblet. "Sandor Clegane, I thank you for my little bird's life and her maidenhead. To Sansa."

In the background Sean saw Baelish roll his eyes at the scene. Varys, however, held a highly interested look as the exchange between the two men approached its curious conclusion.

With the toast, the Hound's always angry glare turned more wary, until at last he answered, with perhaps the smallest trace of softness, "To Sansa." And in three seconds flat he quaffed the entire cup.

Sean took only a small sip. While he relished the idea of a nip, the present company rather turned his stomach.

Varys started to applaud lightly. "Oh neatly done, Lord Stark. You've leashed Joffrey's favorite pet with a few mere words and the image of a sweet child," simpered the Spider.

"I'll gut you, Eunuch," the Hound blazed.

Varys ignored the killer's venom and continued, "Pray tell, how did you ever discover such a tender, romantic spot existed in poor Sandor's heart for a little bird? And here I thought I was the only one to care for 'little birds.'" He preened. "I don't recall a sweet northern red headed chickadee in my menagerie."

"Tread carefully, Varys, or I'll let the Hound have you, parley or not," the actor said icily.

The Master of Whisperers pouted. "Tsk tsk tsk. Threats? We were such good friends on the Small Council, my Lord. Sharing information. Guiding the Seven Kingdoms with our wisdom."

"Guiding the kingdom to ruin and war. You're nothing but a treacherous liar," not Ned declared with contempt.

The pout took on a deeper level of sadness. "I can understand your thirst for vengeance and distrust of me, Lord Stark. But please believe, the deal we struck to exchange your confession for banishment to the Wall, was made with the utmost honesty and integrity on my part. I was as nearly surprised and disappointed as yourself when impetuous King Joffrey …" Titter. Titter. "so dramatically, so drastically, so irrevocably changed the terms." The look the Spider now gave dripped sympathy and sorrow. "To your detriment of course, unfortunately." Then he flashed a cheery grin, "And now, magically, divinely, you've been returned to us. Such a joyous occasion welcoming you back."

"Oh, shut up," Littlefinger disdainfully interjected. "We both know, Varys, why the dour, honorable Lord of Winterfell demanded the two of us for this meeting. And I have no doubt this icy fellow is who he claims, for he's clearly no imposter, unless he be a Faceless Man. He wishes, from the lofty perch of his miraculous return, to dispense his oh so superior glower of noble disapproval on those he chiefly blames for his fall; no matter his own inept play in the Game of Thrones caused his shortened neck. I tried to warn you Stark, teach you; tried to even befriend you. But you refused to listen, let alone abide me, through your unbelievably thick righteous armor of knightly, honorable sensibilities. So be quick with your little show, and give us your terms so we may scurry back to the Queen. I grow weary with your predictability."

"You!" screeched Catelyn, rising from her chair; hate twisting her beautiful face. "Like a brother I trusted you! And how you returned my faith by trying to destroy my family!"

"Cat …" he replied with spread arms, looking and sounding like a smug man appeasing an angry lover.

Sean stepped over. Smack!

Baelish found himself laying on the thick rugs strewn across the floor, rubbing his jaw.

The Hound laughed at the little man's arse over heels predicament. Varys tittered uncomfortably.

"You want terms, you odious wretch?! Then here are the terms. Cersei may have her brother lover back in exchange for my daughter. But that is not all I require, oh no, not at all," Sean ranted. "When she comes, so do you, Littlefinger; and the Eunuch too. You will become my prisoners; to do with whatever I so please. And it will please me greatly," he hissed.

Both the Master of Coin and the Master of Whisperers suddenly looked very pale; while the scarred man appeared very, very amused.

"Oh, Lord Stark …" Varys started to say with disappointment.

"Silence!" not Ned roared at him, then turned back to the Hound and raised the goblet of red he still held. "You'll want to keep a hand on the pair all the way to the Red Keep. The rest of my 'show,' you see, is for you, Hound; to repeat to Cersei. And if these wretches were likely to flee already, once they hear this next bit, they'll be like rats deserting a sinking ship after."

The brute raised his eyebrows in doubt. "Truly?" his harsh voice asked.

"On my honor as a Stark," Sean replied earnestly.

The amused look turned into an open smile on Clegane's horrid phiz. He too stepped forward and delivered a sharp kick to the reclining Baelish.

"ooof!" And then the jumped up accountant rolled over with a moan and clutched his belly.

The Hound turned toward the Spider, raising up a heavy paw.

Varys let out a pitiful whimper, and cried as he shrank backward, "Please, Lord Stark!"

"Enough," not Ned commanded.

Clegane lowered his fist, only to quickly lift it a second time in order to watch the Eunuch squirm. He laughed at the display of cowardice, but did not lash out afterall. "Show me," the Hound chortled at not Ned.

"Varys is a creature of the Targaryens, always has been. He's worked for their return since the day Robert foolishly kept him on the Small Council. He works with a longtime friend of his, a fat magistrate in Pentos, named Illyrio. It was this jumped up merchant who arranged the marriage between Daenerys Targaryen and the Dothraki warlord Khal Drogo."

The Hound shrugged his shoulders, unimpressed.

"Illyrio also supplies things to the Eunuch. He proudly mentioned his 'little birds' earlier, always whispering everyone's secrets in his ear so he may better lay his spider's web of deceit. I know who and what they are. My closest banners have been seeking them out, collecting them since I defeated the Old Lion at the Green Fork. Hallis!"

Several members of the Winterfell guard led by their unimaginative captain led in a score of chained waifs and young vagabonds, looking as if they'd just come from a well funded production of Oliver Twist.

"Children?" said a perplexed Hound.

"Not just any children, Clegane. Pickpockets. Cutpurses. Wall climbers. Lockpicks. Lookouts. Like any you might find in a slum like Fleabottom, but with two devilishly clever differences. First, they all read and write. Who would ever suspect such as those could read the letters and account books of lords, sers, and merchant princes? And second, none of them have their tongues."

"What? the Hound barked.

"Yes. I wouldn't be surprised if there are a hundred like this in King's Landing this very moment. Some even in the Red Keep. Keeping an eye on all who come and go, for the Spider here. Hallis?"

"Come you!" the captain of the guard snapped, dragging forward a dirty, thin, rag clad wretch of a girl no older than ten. "Open your mouth! Show them!"

Clegane peered down, taking note of the jagged stump in the child's mouth. "Eh," he said casually, as if unimpressed.

"I'll let you take a half dozen with you. I'm sure, with suitable inducement, Pycelle might have an interesting conversation with one of them using quill and parchment."

The Hound simply grunted in response.

"And we're to believe you didn't mutilate them yourself, Stark," Littlefinger gaspingly accused with a pained voice from the rugs.

Sean looked down at the worm. He kicked him, eliciting another cry of pain. It felt good. "This one," he drawled with scorn. "He was responsible for the poisoning of Lord Arryn. Oh, along with his lover … Lysa Arryn. I wouldn't at all be surprised if her son Robert is actually the fruit of his limp little-finger. Did you think I would not hear the lie you've boasted for years at court of taking my fair lady wife's maidenhead? Did you!?" not Ned snarled. He gave the little shit the boot again.

Then, to add fuel to the Hound's fire, "Or I would not discover you coveted my daughter and have plans to spirit her away to the Vale by ship?" 'Well, you would've,' Sean thought with satisfaction, 'if I hadn't come on the scene.' He kicked the lout a third time for emphasis.

The Hound laughed in appreciation of not Ned's unNed-like behavior.

"Though I doubt Cersei would care very much about that; she might even be appreciative. But she'll find this bit interesting, this fuuu …" Sean at last took a breath to calm himself, he'd lost his Ned cool the last few minutes. "… this filthy whoremonger told both Lady Catelyn and myself that the knife used to attack her and my son had been won off him in a bet … by a Lannister; which is why my Lady wife grabbed the Imp when she unexpectedly came across him. But that was a lie, like the one he arranged for his lover, Lysa Arryn, to send us. Her secret note arrived in Winterfell right before Robert did. It was her words that spurred me to accept the King's offer and become his Hand. The message claimed the Lannisters killed Jon Arryn. For his own profit, he purposefully set House Stark against House Lannister.

"You've no proof, Stark," Littlefinger wheezed. "None."

He looked down at not Aidan, offering no pity for the deadly viper. "Oh the Queen," and the actor said the title disparagingly, "will believe it if she knows the accusation came from Eddard Stark. She'll remember the truth and honor I offered her one morning in the godswood." He pivoted back to the Hound. "You should return then, to your master and mistress, Clegane," the actor finally announced. "I'm sure Cersei will be displeased if you can't claim to have seen the Kingslayer."

Clegane nodded.

"Jon!" Sean called out.

The Greatjon came to a side flap of the tent, holding tightly onto a shackled Jaime Lannister.

The Hound took a long look. "Good enough," he grunted. "What about them?" he asked jerking a meaty thumb in the direction of the two cowering members of the Small Council.

"Lord Glover will see that they're tied into their saddles."

"Come on, sheep!" Clegane commanded the pair, turning toward the main entry flap. At the tent wall, he paused, looking back over his shoulder at Sean with his usual evil glare. "I'll still enjoy killing you when you try storming the walls, Stark," the brute growled.

"So will I," not Ned agreed.


	9. Chapter 9

**Littlefinger**

His jaw ached, and as Petyr gingerly dabbed his tongue against the swollen gum inside his abused, handsome face, he determined a tooth had likely chipped. Physically he couldn't do much more than that, as he awaited the Hound's not so tender pleasure, what with his hands tied roughly to the horn of the saddle he found himself be-straddling. But the Mockingbird's mind, that never stopped observing, analyzing, and scheming a thousand different ways all at once. He cocked his dapper head to watch the reviled, and apparently more deadly than ever supposed, figure similarly bound, but not so harshly handled, on the grey mare beside him. The Spider's eyes, he noted, lay very still; revealing nothing, no outward indication that he even shared Petyr's delicate predicament. 'Varys, Varys, Varys … you've been terribly naughty for a _very_ long time, haven't you?' he snickered to himself, enjoying the implications of at least _those_ particular startling revelations made this dangerous night by the pretend shade a dead man. The eunuch didn't even twitch as Petyr's steady, amused gaze fell on him. 'No doubt plotting how to extricate yourself from your own sticky web, while I already …'

The clever man cut off his smug thoughts and released a small "whoosh" of pain as Clegane finally started moving their intimate cavalcade of horses and mute children towards the Dragon Gate and the Hound's mistress. Both the reins of Petyr's black gelding and those for Varys' mount were tied to the Hound's massive warhorse, as were the slender chain of shackled urchins. His belly and ribs hurt much worse than his jaw. At least the pair of brainless brutes who'd cheerily pummeled him earlier hadn't also squashed his branch and plums. 'Well, perhaps not so completely brainless after all,' Petyr generously admitted. Both the Not Stark's appearance and performance hadn't at all been what he'd anticipated. 'Never guess how a ghost will act,' he rationalized. Recalling the image of that man started churning up the eerie feeling that had threatened to swamp the Mockingbird's cool demeanor back inside the tent. Petyr fought down the unpleasant sensation, and its impossible implications, by reanalyzing every angle he'd viewed of Happily Headless Ned for the tiniest sign of proof that the mirror perfect reflection was a Faceless Man.

At first, as the unbelievable reports of Tywin Lannister's catastrophic downfall at the hands of a resurrected Lord of Winterfell came to King's Landing, Petyr thought the rumor merely a clever ploy by Cat's boy to cause panic and further confound his enemies. The Stark spawn had after all proven himself a strategist of sorts by arranging the defeat of not one, but two, Westerland armies, so the Master of Coin paid little heed to the nursery tale and focused his considerable intellect on how to use the coming chaos to advance his own already considerable position in the game. But then, as the weeks turned into a month, and more and more detailed information on the '_Return of Dear Lord Eddard_' trickled in through his network of usually reliable sources, Petyr's initial notion of a particularly talented mummer playing at Happily Headless Ned had slowly transformed into something actually alarming and sinister ... a Faceless Man. Dangerous questions began to assail him for which he had no answers; and the not knowing bothered him greatly. 'Why hadn't Joffrey and Cersei, or even himself, simply not woken up one morning?' 'Where was the North's wealth coming from to pay for the assassin's seemingly endless charade?' 'Were the Faceless Men overturning centuries of tradition and making themselves players in Westeros? In the Game of Thrones?' 'What did the North hold over them to make the assassins their lackeys?' 'Was Ned Stark really not …'

He winced as his gelding's misstep jarred his bruised ribs and belly. No grumkin or snark had so rudely struck him; only a man. But one, who more importantly, had run an elaborate, and unfortunately very accurate, bluff; in hopes of tainting the Mockingbird in Cersei's not so clever, yet easy to anger emerald eyes. Fortunately Happily Headless Ned had unwound a little too much rope in trying to snare all his enemies at once. Petyr saw the skeins this man, only a man, was trying to unravel; and the Mockingbird knew exactly how to use it. 'I can outwit this man,' he told himself. Reassured of his own superiority, the Mockingbird's mind unleashed its creativity to plan the complete destruction of House Stark and all its allies, open or otherwise. At last the creak from the opening of the Dragon Gate's thick wrought iron and oak beams brought him out of his delicious revenge laden revelry, 'We shall see who the better player in the Game of Thrones is now, Happily Headless Ned?' the Mockingbird thought haughtily. 'Whoever you are.'

* * *

No, it was as Petyr expected, peering into the torch lit gloom inside the Dragon Gate. 'Too many thin reeds,' he told himself with acceptance. The situation was too tenuous to let mere feelings temper his actions. 'They would hesitate to attack on my say so, no matter how many stags and dragons I've thrown them through the years.'

The score of Lannister red cloaks under the proficient captain Vylarr already stood more or less at attention atop their chargers. The gold cloaks, led by the buyable, biddable, morally flexible Allar Deem, scurried about in a show of typical incompetence. Half of the twenty with mounts were still trying to reach their sorry nags, let alone saddle up. And many of the eighty city watch on foot seemed to be reluctantly dragging their ringmail clad bodies away from the squalid pot shots, diseased whore closets, and rigged dice games lining the sides of the flagstone paved, shit invested traveler's square behind the gate. At least no white cloaks or lordlings high in the Queen's favor had been sent down in his absence to await the meager embassy's return. Up to a point, his authority as Master of Coin, and purveyor of many, many bribes, would stay undisputed as they returned to the Red Keep and the uncertain warmth of the Queen's magnificent bosom. So at least for now, Cersei's predictable paranoia over the need to guard her own and her precious Joffrey's fates from the northern wolves played to the Mockingbird's needs.

"Captain Vylarr! Captain Allar! Come release me Sers!" Petyr declared in a strong, authoritative voice. "The Starks have profaned the parley and lain hands upon me!"

The two men and their closest aides almost instantly started moving forward, staring hard through darkness to see what the Master of Coin and member of the King's Small Council meant.

"No Baelish, you're mine," the Hound snarled, giving a jerk to the reins of Petyr's horse, pulling both the gelding and its rider closer to his hideous face and equally repugnant breath.

"No, Clegane, as a member of the Small Council I'm the King's until the Queen Regent, your mistress, says otherwise. Now be a good dog and stop barking at your better," the Mockingbird replied in his best bored, superior tone.

"I'll smash your teeth in the next time you squeak, Littlefinger," the Hound rumbled menacingly, his gauntleted free hand flexing into a large, formidable fist.

"Because my mere words scare you?" the Mockingbird scoffed, calculating a slightly better than even chance that the thug's threat were a bluff. When nothing more than throaty growls answered his question, Petry immediately gestured as expansively as he could with his tied hands toward the approaching red and gold cloaked figures. "_Those_ will risk rescuing _me_ away from _you_?" he ridiculed. "I think not. And even if they did, where could I flee, hmmmnn? Back to the tender mercies of Ned Stark? No thank you, I'd rather keep my head; which is where it will stay when Cersei learns of all I have done to benefit her Grace."

"Lies," hissed Varys, eyes as black as his soul. "Self serving lies."

"Says the traitor who can only play with words since he doesn't have a cock to stroke. So why lie when the truth serves me even better, especially compared to you, eh eunuch?"

"Shut up!" Clegane snapped. "Or I'll piss in both your dead mouths."

"Lord Baelish. Lord Varys. Lord Clegane," rumbled the captain of the Queen's Guard uncertainly, having heard some of the hard words exchanged between the three and at last noticing two of the three with bound hands. "What happened out there?"

"A simple misunderstanding, captain," Petyr answered, yet again risking the Hounds wrath. "The Mummer Lord Stark sought to sow confusion amongst his enemies."

Allar Deem coughed. "How so, my lord?"

"By doing the unexpected, he told the truth. Now cut me free, ser."

"And me," spoke the spider, finally braking his silence.

'Oh there will be no alliance of convenience with you.' "No," Petyr snapped. "Most assuredly not you, Eunuch. When tonight's truths are untwisted before the Queen, all I have done will prove my loyalty to House Lannister; and yours will only reveal a castrated dragon hiding beneath spider's silk."

"And what of these urchins?" Vylarr demanded, jerking a hand at the mute handful of chained children.

"Come, come, Ser Allar," the Mockingbird chided, wiggling his hands to spark the dullard into action. At last the gold cloak captain took a hint and started to unsheathe a pocket knife. "Ah, now they … ow-ow-ow-ow," Petyr broke off suddenly in pain, for the Hound had moved faster than the bought officer and sliced not only through the rope binding his hands, but his gloves and the skin beneath too.

As the Master of Coin grimaced and fought back uttering an angry retort at the brutish white cloak, Varys unctuous voice oozed out at its finest to fill the void. "…are the poor sweet leavings of the Starks' monstrous magic. These precious babes, whose tongues were sliced off by cruel northern blades as offerings to their barbaric Old Gods in exchange for Lord Stark's return from the dead, are now ours to nurture, to guard. For that is the last thing the Wight of Winterfell seeks; instead, he inflames us so we will torture these dear ones in the black cells beneath the Red Keep until they tell false tales to incriminate the innocent, and thus complete his dark incantation and destroy all that which protects the Iron Throne."

If Petyr hadn't been so busy tending the Hound's scratches, he'd have laughed. 'How pitiful, Varys. That's all you could come up with? Pathetic.' And then the Mockingbird did laugh, for the Hound reached out and backhanded the spider across his simpering face. Though judging by the calculating look on the ugly brute's face when his gaze next fell on Petyr, he was seriously weighing whether or not to slap the Mockingbird too.

"Lord Clegane!" Captain Vylarr burst unhappily, uncertain how to react to the open violence against one of the Small Council; but thankfully, yet, not a second.

"Oh the traitor had it coming," Petyr interjected with a pain enhanced sneer. "He's been plotting for a Targaryen restoration since the moment our Grace's brave uncle put an end to Aerys the Mad. And these ones," he jabbed fingers at the sly wretches, "are nothing more than his spies; mute slaves brought over from Pentos to do the spider's underhanded bidding."

"Truly?" muttered a perplexed Allar Deem.

"Could be," the Hound replied grumpily.

"So where did all these mutilated mongrels come from then? Oh, Ser Vylarr, Ser Allar, there were at least a score more just like this gathered back in the Northerns' parley tent. And while there is much I loathe about their icy ilk; aside perhaps than their Flaying Lord Bolton, cutting children is not one of their vices." The men gathered around the Mockingbird, other than the woozy eunuch, all nodded in agreement at his statement. 'Good, I have them for the moment,' he thought. "Sergeant Waters," Petyr continued, addressing Deem's deputy most deeply in his pay. "I fear my own modest collection of establishments must be swarming with the eunuch's spies. Please go to my manor not far from the Old Gate. You know the one?"

"Yesh, Lerd Baylesh," the middle aged lisper, enforcer, and pedophile answered.

"Tell my Steward Rolland that 'the spider is loose.'" 'Though you'll pronounce it 'loosh,' idiot.' And that my sellswords are to capture any tongue-less children who work or frequent my homes and business. This must all be done tonight, lest word reaches them of their Master's imprisonment and they try to rescue him through secret paths and the use of poisons," Petyr explained, trying to play on everyone's fears of the Master of Whisperers.

'If there's anyone who knows more of the bolt holes which Maegor hid throughout the Red Keep than I do, it's Varys,' he thought.

The child fucker looked down at the chained youths, while chewing at his lower, chapped lip. "So's weeze kills'em?"

'After you bugger them, you mean?' "I don't care how badly you rough up the little devils trapping them. But I want them alive and brought to the Red Keep. They are evidence of the spider's treason against the crown." 'Not that Cersei will wait long to chop off your head, me thinks. And if Ser Ilyn swings soon enough, and wouldn't that be wonderfully ironic to have a tongue-less man remove your shaved dome after what you've appeared to have done, maybe I can take it with me as a souvenir when I desert this sinking ship. Who knows, maybe I can reunite it with your long lost cock somewhere in the Free Cities. Two heads are better than one.'

"That sounds a clever move, Lord Baelish," Captain Vylarr agreed. "I think we should set a search too when we return to the Red Keep. What say you, Captain Deem?"

"Aye. Let's do so," concurred the gold cloak.

'Hopeless, unless I lead them by the hand.' "Why not spread word about these assassins among the rest of the watch," the Mockingbird added. "I think, as Master of Coins, I think I can safely state that our Grace will gladly offer a gold dragon as reward for each traitor, no matter how small, handed over to the crown."

"Very wise." "The King is generous." "Down with traitors." Many of the gathered guards murmured.

'And by this time tomorrow Flea Bottom will be devoid of street urchins and all the bowls o' brown will taste like tongue. Oh, one last thing' "Captain Vylarr. Captain Allar. When my trusted sellswords bring any waifs found in my establishments tonight to the Red Keep, will the gate be open for them or must they wait til morning to enter?"

The two men looked sagely at each other.

"We will leave word at the postern door," Vylarr rasped.

"Excellent. Now that we seem to have things well in hand. Let us take the eunuch to the Queen and justice." He bobbed his head in acknowledgement to the slightly confused appearing Hound. "Lead on Ser."

The usual angry look returned to the jumped up white cloak. "I'm no Ser," he growled.

'No, you're not, Dog,' thought the Mockingbird. 'You're a sheep, just like everyone else.'


	10. Chapter 10

**Robb**

He tried hard not to stare at his father. No one, other than Roose Bolton, said much after the Lannister's trio of lackeys unceremoniously left the tent, and what the Lord of the Dreadfort did say was in his usual, annoying half whisper. Most of the Great Lords hid behind their cups of wine, some cleverly and some obviously, but all clearly just as disturbed as Robb at witnessing the honorable Lord of Winterfell break the sanctity of the parley by striking one of the false King's ambassadors; and that more than once. By ones and twos, as convenient excuses of duty or nature calling were made, the tent emptied of Lord Mallister, Lady Mormont, Lord Cerwyn, Ser Stevron, the Greatjon, and finally the Flaying Lord, until only Ser Olyvar and family remained.

"T'was ill done, Lord Eddard," said the Blackfish sternly, the first to speak in the reduced gathering.

"Uncle!" his mother protested.

Edmure cleared his throat and nervously plucked at the silver Trout shaped silver clasp holding together the ends of his river blue-green colored cloak. "No, Cat. Uncle Brynden has the right of it. My goodbrother has cast a stain; though only a small one, mind" he interjected quickly, "on the honor of his House."

'And by association on all the Houses serving him, including you, Uncle,' Robb continued to himself, acknowledging the unspoken concern of his father's departed chief banners.

His father at first said nothing. He simply closed his eyes and downed the rest of his wine in a single long draught. "Honor," he whispered disgustedly. "What do they know of honor? The leeches Lord Roose so loves have more honor than those slimy eels."

"They have none, my lord," Ser Brynden acknowledged with a curt bob of his head. "Which helped make your plan to turn the dogs against themselves so fiendishly clever. Still, there was no reason to …"

"No reason?!" his father shouted. "When Lord Baelish lusts after my daughter Sansa and whores her best friend, the child of my own Steward, in his brothels? When that foul white cloak can slay smallfolk at a whim and call it justice? When Lord Varys rips the tongues out of small children!?"

"The Father shall weigh their miserable souls when the Stranger marks them. But it is your soul, Lord Eddard, a soul I thought noble, that concerns me," the Blackfish chastised. "There are codes a true knight abides by; sacred laws established by both the First Men and the Andals," the Blackfish chastised. "I fear you have foresworn them and that the Lannisters may now violate their word when next we meet."

"You fear Cersei may violate her word?" his father choked incredulously. He shook his head bitter and grabbed the nearest goblet discarded by one of the departed lords. "And do you have any fear for the six children I've just sent off to the black cells beneath the Red Keep? To Illyn Payne's tender mercies?" he asked, before swallowing the dregs.

A small look of discomfort flitted over Ser Brynden's face. "Well … It is …"

His father turned away from the Blackfish in disgust and addressed the man's nephew. "And what of you, Edmure? Does their fate not bother your sense of 'Family, Duty, Honor'?"

Uncle Edmure shrugged indifferently. "They were spies, proven guilty before the Seven by the very words they wrote down to your questions, goodbrother. Their lives are forfeit. What matter if they are children?"

"Children. I feared for the fate of children once," his father said with a long drawn out sigh, while picking up another cup. In a louder, pained voice, he continued. "I mourned the death of Rhaegar's offspring at the claws of the Lion, though he, ultimately, was to blame for my father's, my brother's, and my sister's deaths. When I confronted Cersei, and told her I knew of her heinous crime against Robert, still I thought of the children. I begged her to take them to Essos, away from Robert's inevitable wrath. And what did that earn me?" He took a swallow of wine. "Robert death; and myself betrayed, thrown in a black cell, not to know what had become of my Arya and Sansa. Oh how they then played on my fears; visiting me now and again to stoke them, but always showing me a way out. 'Such a small lie to make, Lord Eddard, for the good of the realm,' they'd say. Until, at last, I, Ned Stark, Lord of Winterfell, Warden of the North, Hand of the King, willingly proclaimed my treason against the rightful King, the Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, to ensure, I hoped, I prayed, my children's safety." Robb's father spat on the floor to show his feelings for the bastard Joffrey.

His mother reached out and clutched at his father, briefly drawing him to her arms.

"No Cat, no," he muttered, pulling free. "Where was my honor then Ser Brynden? Lord Edmure? I forsook the memory of my King, my friend, my brother. I forsook my duty to the Kingdom. I forsook my personal honor, all for children. Well!? Where … was … my … honor?! And how do I get it back?"

No one answered.

"I thought not," his father said like a curse. He drank again. "I'll never, never worry where my honor stands against the likes of them, who chopped my head off and called it mercy. Well they won't have it again! And I'll be damned if I let you serve it up to them on the silver platter of my so called honor!"

"Ned," his mother pleaded.

"S'alright," his father slurred, suddenly sounding both very drunk and very tired. "Everything … s'alright. We'll get Sansa back … somehow."

Robb's mother began to weep openly.

"Brynden, Edmure, see my lady wife to her tent, it's been a long day. Ser Olyvar, make the rounds of the camp, then go to bed; we'll be up early tomorrow, lots to do. Robb, you've a young bride waiting you," the Lord of Winterfell commanded, before turning his back on his family to search for another half-full cup.

The others had the decency to obey their distraught lord. But Robb stayed rooted to the spot, staring at the man his father had become. That man began humming a curious tune, one Robb had never heard before.

The Lord of Winterfell found an unemptied cup, stopped his humming long enough to grunt, and then raised the wine towards his lips, where he paused, as out of the corner of his icy grey eyes he spotted Robb over the rim, standing motionless. The cup lowered a bit. The humming ended. "I'm not the man you remember, am I?" he asked quietly.

"No, Ser," Robb answered.

His father nodded his head slightly. "I'm not the man I remember either." And then the humming started up again.

The young man bowed and turned to go. "Come Grey Wind," he called. From the point in the tent farthest away from his father, the large dire wolf stood up, stretched a moment, and padded softly after him.

As he stepped foot out through the large tent's side flap, a short, slender figure clasped on to him.

"Arya?" he whispered.

"Robb, I'm scared for father," a girl sniffled.

"Shhhhh." Definitely Arya Underfoot. "Listen," he said softly into his sister's ear.

Back inside the tent, his father's humming grew louder and then turned to half sung words.

_"Wheear 'ast tha bin sin' ah saw thee, ah saw thee?  
On Ilkla Mooar baht 'at  
Wheear 'ast tha bin sin' ah saw thee, ah saw thee?  
Wheear 'ast tha bin sin' ah saw thee?  
On Ilkla Mooar baht 'at  
On Ilkla Mooar baht 'at  
On Ilkla Mooar baht 'at"_

His father started a new stanza.

_"Tha's been a cooartin' Mary Jane  
On Ilkla Mooar baht 'at …"_

"What's he singing?" Arya asked, evidently confused.

Robb shook his head. "Nothing I've ever heard."

"Is it the old tongue?" his sister wondered.

"Nooooo," he answered doubtfully. "I think … I think it's the common tongue."

_"Tha's bahn' to catch thy deeath o' cowd  
On Ilkla Mooar baht 'at  
Tha's bahn' to catch thy deeath o' cowd …"_

"Your … bound to catch thy … death of cold?" Robb translated quietly into Arya's ear as his father kept on with the sad melody. "On Ilkley Moor … without a hat. On Ilkley Moor without a hat."

_"Then us'll ha' to bury thee  
On Ilkla Mooar baht 'at …"_

Arya's grip on Robb's arm tightened. "Then us will have to bury thee," she uttered softly, picking up on the brogue words herself.

_"Then t'worms'll come an' eyt thee up  
On Ilkla Mooar baht 'at  
Then t'worms'll come an' eyt thee up  
Then t'worms'll come an' eyt thee up …"_

His sister squeezed him with every ounce of her wiry strength. "Then the worms will come and eat thee up. Oh, Robb," she shuddered.

The pit growing in his stomach positively lurched and heaved too. 'Father can put on an icy face better than anyone," the young man thought. 'But this? What's wrong?' For the most part Robb hadn't enjoyed all the killing in the Whispering Woods or outside Riverrun. Only deep in the night, when he woke from blood filled dreams to see Grey Wind twitching asleep on the rug beside him and the slumbering Roslin, did he guiltily admit he had some taste for the blood lust that had come upon him in battle. Never could he imagine though that the man before him, the giant of his childhood, the hero of Robert's Rebellion, could ever be disturbed to the point of unbalance by all the killing normal to war.

"Should we get mother?" Arya whispered.

"No," he replied, and patted his sister's head to reassure her; to reassure himself through the closeness with his pack mate. 'I wish Jon were here,' Robb wistfully thought, wanting to share this burden with his pack brother who now guarded the Wall, two thousand miles away. Images of Jon all clothed in black, marching through the dark atop towering blocks of ice, Ghost by his side, filled his mind. He sighed, releasing the vision, only to have it replaced by another, that of a familiar smirking smile. 'Or Theon.' He wrinkled his mouth, still not understanding why his father had commanded his friend to remain behind in Riverrun and learn how another Great House run its business. 'Father never did warm to Theon. And now he's almost hostile to him.' Robb wondered what lies about the fosterling had reached his lord father's ears.

_"… Then us'll all ha' etten thee  
On Ilkla Mooar baht 'at  
On Ilkla Mooar baht 'at  
On Ilkla Mooar baht 'at_

That's wheear we get us ooan back  
On Ilkla Mooar baht 'at  
That's wheear we get us ooan back  
That's wheear we get us ooan back  
On Ilkla Mooar baht 'at  
On Ilkla Mooar baht 'at  
On Ilkla Mooar baht 'at"

When his father's rough base voice finished the last verse of the eldritch sounding tune, he drained the cup in his hand, and then declaring angrily to no one, distinctly said, "That's where we get our own back."

'No, definitely not the man I remember,' Robb thought, drawing his sister away from the tent flap. She looked up at him questioningly, pleading for an answer to her worries. "We'll talk to mother in the morning, alone. Alright?"

Arya nodded.

"But first, we need to talk. Father's been different since the moment he came back … after … you know."

Anger and pain and memories swelled up in his sister's face. "Ilyn Payne cutting off his head," she growled.

Robb scrunched up his lips. "Well … yeah." The usual doubts that nagged at him whenever he thought of his father's changes returned. "I guess that might change his perspective a bit," he said, feeling stupid for having said it.

"Ya think!" Arya snapped.

Robb sighed. He really didn't know what to think.


	11. Chapter 11

**Littlefinger (II)**

Cersei jabbed an imperious finger at the guard nearest her and impatiently tapped it downward. The observant sentry responded quickly and began vigorously pounding his spear butt against the stone floor, a beat promptly picked up by the other red cloaks standing about the edges of the Queen's Ballroom. The heavy reverberations cut through the maddening din that had followed Petry from his very entry into the Outer Bailey, all the long weaving way through the Red Keep, and into the last citadel of Maegor's Holdfast. The Mockingbird hadn't at all minded the clamor surrounding the return of the Queen's 'embassy' from the parley, it alerted his agents to his arrival; and more hopefully, as rumor undoubtedly flew ahead of him, gave time to the smarter and loyal ones to prepare. One by one, the competing, shouting voices died away until only the noise of the boy King's adolescent tantrum remained to bounce angrily between the walls and reflect peevishly off the polished mirrors behind each embedded torch sconce.

"Kill them, I command it!" the boy ranted yet again, the most common refrain to pass his pouty lips since joining up with the party of royal ambassadors back near the keep's main gate.

"Joffrey!" his mother barked, seeking to silence him.

Petyr calmly noted how her lovely face and emerald eyes blazed with a level of fury she once typically only reserved for her not so dearly departed husband. 'Good,' he thought, 'don't think with your silly little brain.'

"They're dirty traitors!" the worthless, spoiled child raged, pointing the crossbow he'd been using to take potshots at the unhappy masses mulling about the square outside the keep, begging for food. "I'll kill them myself and turn their heads over to the Starks."

'The head they want most is yours, especially once they see what you've made of their sweet Sansa, my poor, doomed kinglet,' the Mockingbird sang to himself.

"Enough," Cersei ground through teeth so tightly clenched her mouth may as well have been Stannis Baratheon's.

"Mother," her son whined.

The Queen stood up with a swoosh of her lovely gold laced gown; her impressive teats wobbling wantonly, barely contained beneath a quite sheer décolletage. "Enough," she dangerously faux whispered.

The King shut his petulant and, praise the Seven, even stupider mouth.

The daughter of Tywin Lannister, face smoldering, picked up a flute glass and tossed off its contents, before darting her eyes back and forth between the sources behind the current upheaval within her court. Several empty pieces of glassware dotted the table in front of where Cersei had just been seated. The Queen, Petyr knew, had a certain low cunning, surprising in one so full of her own importance. 'Must come from being a woman,' the Mockingbird suspected. Luckily it would not be aided this evening by either her temper or her fondness for drink. 'Unless she has me struck dead here where I stand,' he thought sadly, ruefully admitting to himself the strong possibility of such an unfortunate event occurring. 'Well, time to take charge.' And the dapper, slender, handsome man stepped forward with exaggerated carefulness to pluck a glass for himself off the table, purposefully drawing attention to his injuries.

The Queen's eyes narrowed in on the unexpected, disrespectful movement of her councilor and immediately spotted his bloody forearms. "Lord Baelish, you appear ill-used," she stated with a displeasure aimed not at the status of his health but at the need for having to address him at all.

The Mockingbird smiled, while tilting his head and eyes in the direction of the Hound. "Merely some over exuberant puppy love, your Grace. Please, think nothing of it," he answered drily.

"Don't worry, I shan't. But what am I to think of these … unholy accusations made against the trusted members of my son's own Small Council," she choked out with controlled fury.

Petyr's smile widened. "Why, they're all true, your Grace," the Mockingbird answered cheerfully.

Gasps of shock broke from the crowd still loitering in the ballroom.

"Oh my sweet Grace, do not believe his lies," Varys keened.

"Mother!" Joffrey shouted angrily.

The Queen jabbed out a thickly be ringed hand again, and the pounding of spears returned to remonstrate the audience back to silence.

"Would you care to explain, Littlefinger?" she growled, voice dangerously dropping several octaves.

"Happily, your Grace. But ….?" And here Petyr craned his neck from side to side to take in the throng of on lookers, who until minutes before had been enjoying the bounty of the royal table. "the simple truth sometimes requires more explanation than the most elaborate lie. Perhaps t'would be wiser to have fewer ears listening in, eh?"

Cersei stood there dumbfounded for a moment at the Mockingbird's audacity. "Joffrey, Lord Janos, Grand Maester Pycelle, Lord Gyles, please remain. The rest of you have my leave to go," she commanded.

The mass of gathered lordlings and ladies bowed, as was their particular want, to either the King or the Queen Regent; and for the most sycophantic to both. Over the shuffling of feet heading towards the doorways, Petry heard the jingle of bells announcing Moon Boy's departure. And through the corner of his eye he was exceptionally pleased to spot the newest motley fool, Ser Dontos, exit the sumptuous hall in the company of Sansa. 'A pity what Joffrey's lackeys have done to your looks, child. You were so very much like Cat. Tcha.' The emptied room still also held Captains Vylarr and Allar, Ser Boros, Ser Preston, Ser Arys, young Lancel, the younger Tyrek, the red cloak dinner guards, Ser Illyn Payne, and his compatriots in muteness, the Varys' six chained waifs.

As the doors finally closed, Cersei announced, "This better be good, Littlefinger. I've never trusted you, for enough coin you'd go over to Stannis or Renly in a heartbeat. One wrong word and you're Ser Ilyn's" As the King's Justice rasped his throaty cackle, now probably sporting a cock stand at the idea of taking another head, the Queen regally lowered herself and her magnificent bosom back down into her dinner chair.

Petry grinned. "The night the old King died, when I assured Ned Stark he would have the support of the gold cloaks come the morning, he apologized for not having trusted me before. I then told him that not having trusted me was the only smart move he'd ever made in King's Landing."

Joffrey scowled at the mention of the now mysterious grumkin Stark. Cersei scowled at the memory of how narrow an edge the start of her son's reign had rested on and being reminded she had the Mockingbird to thank for it. Janos Slynt and Allar Deem scowled at the implication that their services could be, and frequently were, bought. The rest, save Clegane, all scowled simply at the cheek of the Master of Coin's initial response. Only the Hound laughed, a strangled sound of amusement acknowledging the obvious truth of the statement.

The Mockingbird continued, "But what use would a man of my business persuasions have for Stannis? A man who would make whore houses illegal. Or Renly, who has no idea what the inside of a whore house, or even a whore, looks like? No, I'm bound as tight to your Grace's cause as any other loyal Lannister banner."

"Which is why you killed Lord Arryn?" the strikingly beautiful golden blonde with as much ice in her veins as any northerner asked chillily.

"I should think not. I killed Lord Jon for my own benefit. Loyalty does not demand a lack of self-interest from the humble servant. The aid his death brought to House Lannister in this instance was merely coincidental."

"Then Lady Lysa …?"

"Oh I've been tickling her velvet purse since the day my first cock hair sprouted," the Mockingbird replied with a smirk. "You can't imagine," he groaned dramatically, "how difficult it's been keeping a woman of her lusty temperament satisfied all these years with only the occasional bout under the covers." 'Oh yes, I well imagine you can Cersei, not that I'm stupid enough to utter that aloud.' "So after fifteen years, she could no longer abide sharing a bed with that doddering lump. He had to go or Lysa swore she'd stab him while he snored." Petyr sighed. "A pinch of poison was all it took." He stopped and turned his gaze at another figure seated at the table, not far from the Queen. "Well that and our good Pycelle not only botching his recovery, but moving the Hand along even faster into the Mother's arms. Tears of Lys, wasn't it, eh Grand Maester?"

"Ahem," the old man coughed, puffing himself up indignantly like some fat bird trying to make something out of his dreary plumage. "Jon Arryn was a kindly lord, the … the enemy of no man. Ahem. I resent your accusation, Lord Baelish."

The Mockingbird laughed and the Spider tittered together at Pycelle's discomfort.

"As I said, your Grace, the hard truth is often more difficult to hear than the lie. All I've ever desired since I fostered at Riverrun was marriage to the Lady Lysa. For that I needed Jon Arryn dead and to use my loyal service on the Small Council to be granted a title noble enough, worthy enough, to wed the widowed Lady Regent of the Vale."

The Queen pursed her lips, obviously weighing the explanation she'd just received. Apparently satisfied, she promptly moved on. "And what is the truth of telling the Starks' my brother Tyrion's dagger was used to try and kill their son Bran? Were you trying to start a war between House Lannister and Winterfell, fool?!" the Queen demanded, white hot anger finally boiling to the surface.

"Kill him, mother," Joffrey demanded yet again, stepping forward to poke the Master of Coin with his unloaded crossbow.

'The stupidity really is inbreed into you. What special seeds have the Seven planted in Tommen and Myrcella thanks to your parents ... love?' "Your Grace," Petyr replied, addressing himself to the King. "I'm touched at the heartfelt concern for your uncle, the one you so affectionately call 'Imp.'"

"Step carefully, Littlefinger," hissed Cersei, her pearly white, poisonous fangs showing.

"Yes, do, Lord Baelish," the Eunuch agreed ironically.

The Hounds massive paw dropped heavily on the Mockingbird's wing and Joffrey prodded at the magnificent black plumage again with his shaftless bow.

"Oh you wound me, your Graces. I tried to prevent war, assuredly."

"How?!" the King screeched, voice breaking.

"The dragonbone dagger Lady Catelyn showed me was undoubtedly one I'd once owned, and had lost in a wager, but not to Lord Tyrion."

"Then who?!" Cersei snapped.

"To your husband, your Grace."

The Queen's eyes narrowed suspiciously, her feeble mind trying to work out the implications of the statement.

"Ask young Lancel there," Petyr continued with equanimity. "He was the King's squire that day. He'll remember the wager made, since it depended on the victory or defeat of his dear cousin, Ser Jaime, in a joust. Well Ser?" he asked, address the pimply sprog.

"It's true, Cer … cousin," the sprog chirped.

"Now, when out of the blue, confronted by Lady Catelyn, did I, did anyone, truly want her husband Lord Eddard investigating Robert for the murder attempt on poor, crippled young Bran Stark?" the Mockingbird asked. "Or perhaps, more importantly, who of King Robert's court present in drab, frozen Winterfell would have had access to his dragonbone blade?"

Petyr believed he saw a sliver of awareness break through Cersei's shaded from reality emerald eyes; and a thaw in the danger he faced appear.

Joffrey however nervously licked his lips and asked. "Why the Imp?"

The Mockingbird sighed. 'And now it's 'Imp?' Stupid. So truly, utterly stupid. I'd have enjoyed manipulating your court, but not now, when your reign will be measured in days.' "In the Game of Thrones, your Grace, much like in Cyvasse, rabble and lowly spearmen must sometimes be sacrificed to protect the King. And such is all your uncle Tyrion is good for. A Lannister, thus worthy of being a piece on the board, but one I erroneously thought no one would worry about its removal; after what I hoped to be a long, frustrating chase by the too honor bound for his own good Hand of the King. I unfortunately didn't account for the off chance that his lady wife might encounter the Imp on her tedious journey back to Winterfell. Of that offense I plead guilty." 'Your meddling was quite unappreciated, Cat,' Petyr thought.

Cersei still looked unhappy, but her head tilted just enough to show she had listened to the Mockingbird's song seriously, likely even soothed by it.

"Oh how tidily you wrap your filth, Lord Baelish, and pronounce the ordure a name day present," the Eunuch scathed.

"Come now, Varys, I've admitted my crimes," Petyr intoned, the very essence of reasonability. "I aimed to become the Lady Lysa's lover, her husband; to even rule the Vale through her. Admit yours; Stark was right, you scheme for the return of the Targaryens. You've never stopped serving them these last fifteen years, have you?"

For barely the length of a blink, never before seen emotions warred on the Spider's soft, pudgy face; then the familiar, overly sweet voice spoke. "Oh how you wound me, Petyr; clutching at the straws offered you by a dead man to try and obscure your own guilt." Titter, titter. "But our wise Queen can cleverly see through your games, you shan't get away with fooling her into pulling others down into the pit of treason with you."

The Mockingbird laughed. "Oh there's plenty of time for the Grand Maester to draw the truth out of your passel of beakless little birds over there. I'll be happy to wait; and then see you exchanged along with fair Sansa to Lord Stark for Ser Jaime."

"Is he?! Is he Eddard Stark?" the Queen asked nervously.

"Certainly," Petyr answered.

"No, a Faceless Man, your Grace," Varys replied.

'Of course it's Faceless Man, but the idea of a Ned Stark returned from the dead makes your heart beat faster beneath those delectable teats. Doesn't it Cersei?'

"It's him alright," the Hound grunted.

"And why wouldn't I hand the both of you over Lord Petyr, along with his stupid chit of a daughter, for my dear brother?" Cersei demanded.

"So you don't appear weak, your Grace," the Mockingbird interjected quickly.

"I'm never weak!" the Queen huffed.

"Of course not," Petyr agreed. "Only one better suited for a fool's motley would think so, your Grace. Which is why you're too strong to give Ned Stark exactly what he's demanding from you." He stepped forward again to the table and plucked an apple slice off a plate, every eye in the room on him. Crunch. "Delicious. I'd send the Hound back out tomorrow with a counter offer. Tell the northerners you'll give them Sansa and one head for brave Ser Jaime; I expect he'll take it." 'But by then Sansa and I will have disappeared like dust in the wind.'

"But who's head, dear Lord Petyr?" the Eunuch tittered. "I'm rather fond of mine. And so many interesting things in it still to tell to her Grace; things to reveal about the too clever for his own good Master of Coin."

"Oh you bore me so, Eunuch. Your Grace, may I have leave to return to my suite? I fear not what he will tell you, and I find myself …" he reached out to snare another apple slice. Crunch. "… hmmn, could use some cinnamon … I find myself in need of sustenance."

The Hound laughed at the Mockingbird's balls.

"So you may flee through a bolt hole," hissed Varys. "And desert her grace."

"I rather think you're secretive ways are more of a concern, Spider. But I would happily take Captain Vylarr with me, or if you could spare one, a kingsguard, to my quarters. I mind not having a keeper set close eyes to me while I sleep; so long as he doesn't wish to share the bed. I'm not Lord Renly after all."

Joffrey, Lancel, Tyrek, and the Hound all chortled at Petyr's wit. Cersei even smiled too.

"I find I tire of you as well, Lord Baelish," the Queen responded. Ser Arys! Captain Vylarr! Kindly take the Master of Coin back to his rooms. Stay with him and make sure he goes nowhere. I shall pass judgment on him in the morning. Be careful, he may not sleep well as he awaits."

"Yes, your Grace." "Yes, your Grace."

"Too kind," the Mockingbird answered cheerily, while bowing. "I shall sleep like a babe."

"Or the dead," the Eunuch wished.

"Now Lord Varys, I shall hear your story. Is there any truth that those tortured urchins work as your spies?"

Petyr couldn't keep the smile off his face as he left the Queen's ballroom, marching between the grizzled red cloak captain and the handsomest, Jaime Lannister aside, as while as the most gullible of the Kingsguard.

They wove their way down rush lit corridors and climbed stairs towards the tiny apartment awarded the Mockingbird in the holdfast as part of his sinecure as Master of Coin. Petyr seldom spent much time there, his personally owned establishments being more conducive to his lifestyle and chosen profession. However, as the Northern and Riverland army began to encroach on the environs of King's Landing and the actions of the royal court became more erratic, he had begun to spend some time in the tedious set of rooms hither too mostly ignored. At one point he informed his dull witted companions, "I must warn you Sers, my rooms will already be occupied by my hapless page Hyle. Or he better be patiently awaiting my return there unless he yearns for a strong whipping." The pair of dullards merely grunted acknowledgment. Apparently the verbal machinations in the Mockingbird's playing of the Game of Thrones having struck them both dumb.

Reaching his door, they found it locked; so the Lannister captain knocked none to gently to announce their arrival.

"Coming," a voice called from within.

Petyr waited patiently, one forearm raised up against his body; two fingers resting on the silver mockingbird pendant pinned to his chest.

Creak. The door opened.

"My lords?" the page's voice called.

"We have special guests, Hyle." Petyr waggled the pair of digits lying on his chest. "Two very special guests. Go see about some wine. Do we have any of that Hedgeberry vintage from Brownhollow? That would go over quite nicely this night."

The page's mouth puffed and wobbled like a fish out of water. "Ye .. ye .. yes, my lord. Right away, my lord. This way my lords."

Vylarr peered in around the edge of the doorway before stepping through while Hyle shuffled off back toward's the study. "Clear," he mumbled.

"May I?" the Mockingbird asked sarcastically.

"Please go ahead, my lord," Ser Arys murmured politely.

"Thank you." Petyr strode confidently forward moving straight towards the door his page had already retreated through. "Follow me to the flagon gentlemen," he proclaimed, never removing the fingers from off his pendant.

"I find myself quite parched after my dealings with her Grace," he said, turning his head to speak to his close following guards as he passed through the doorway. "Glasses, Hyle." First the red cloak entered, then the white cloak. "Now!"

"Awuk!" gurgled Ser Arys Oakheart, a dagger plunged down over the collar of his shimmering chest plate into his neck.

Captain Vylarr spun quickly, hand already drawing steel, to meet the attacker hid behind the door. But not fast enough.

Twa-thunk!

A crossbow bolt sank to its fletching in the red cloak's chest.

The Mockingbird stepped forward to grab the mortally injured man's arm, ensuring the formerly vigorous guard couldn't still pull his blade all the way out and wreak some unexpected havoc.

Thud. Arys Oakheart's corpse hit the floor. The shadowy image behind the deceased white cloak stepped forward.

"Not through the cloak, Lothor; I'll need that."

A hand twitched the mass of cloak in back of the captain to the side, and then Petyr felt the man's body move as a sharp blade jabbed into a kidney.

"Neatly done," the Mockingbird pronounced, reaching up to undue the strings on the red cloak and then twirl the mass of cloth up and over onto his own shoulders.

"You as well, Hyle."

"Thank you, my lord," his page said between loud swallows.

Thud. Captain Vylarr's body hit the floor too.

"Killing your first man's never easy."

"No .. no .. no lord," Hyle stuttered.

"Have a drink," and Petyr gestured to the bottle sitting on his desk. "Then go to the dungeon tower roof, light the green torch, and set it where I told you. Alright?"

The page nodded and poured himself a glass.

Petyr smiled encouragingly at the boy and poured two more glasses, handing one over to the Hedge Knight and henchman Lothor Brune. "Cheers." It was a tangy Arbor with a hint of citrus.

"Better, Hyle?"

"I … I think so, my lord."

"Good, then off with you. We'll be waiting for you at the bottom of the cliff. You remember where the hand holds are? Good. Next stop, Penthos. And you can be sure I'll let the whores of my brothel there know what a fierce killer you are, Hyle."

An eager grin split through the dolt's nerves, and then the boy shot off like a startled doe in the woods.

When they heard the sound of his suite's exterior door closing, the freerider set down his glass and asked with a grunt, "Kill him?"

"Of course," the Mockingbird answered matter of factly.

"The girl?"

"Yes, we'll check her room first. If she's not there, she's likely in the godswood with that fool Dontos. I saw them leave the Queen's ballroom together."

Another grunt of acknowledgement. Then the grey haired warrior reached down and pulled out a simple helm with a noseguard. "Here."

The Mockingbird sighed. He never enjoyed putting anything on top of his well coifed hair, but if needs must. So he settled the heavy, ugly piece of metal atop his head, completing his disguise as yet another red cloak.

The pair departed and trudged for five minutes through the maze of Maegor's Holdfast till they came to the Lady Sansa's gilded cage. A gold cloak and some sell sword stood guard outside her door. Well the gold cloak actually stood

"Cap'n Vylarr wants t'know iz de lady back in?" Petyr asked in gruff, unrecognizable voice.

"Nay," the sellsword said from the stool on which he perched.

The Mockingbird could sense Lothor behind him slowly slipping a dagger back into its sheath.

"Ulright, t'en. Sends word ta de cap'n when she do."

"Fuck d'at," the lazy sellsword spat. "I don't fight fer him."

Petyr shrugged. "Y'er arse den." And off he and Lothor Brune marched, heading for the bridge out of the Holdfast.

At the gate, Ser Meryn held duty that night for the white cloaks, but he didn't give a second look to the aging hedge knight and the short red cloak as they passed over the dry, metal spiked moat. When they reached the top of the serpentine stairs, Petyr thought he saw a pale green light flickering atop the Dungeon Tower roof. 'Good, young Hyle didn't lose his barely descended balls and did his task. A pity Hyle will never get a chance to use them.' As the Mockingbird thought of his page's coming demise, another part of his brain was already calculating how long before a certain, small boat would be setting out from the south shore of the Blackwater.

In ten minutes, they reached the gate to the Godswood. As useless a piece of land as the Master of Coin had ever seen. Nearly a seventh the total space sitting on top of Aegon's Hill devoted to what? Pretend gods and simple trees. The sentimentality of people, even that of ruthless killers like Aegon the Conqueror and Maegor the Cruel, knew no bounds. Petyr got a thrill exploiting the foibles of sheep to his own ends. "Wait for me here, Lothor," he commanded. "If Dontos comes out with me, kill him."

"Aye," the hedge knight grunted.

A bit of moonlight trickled through the thinning clouds above King's Landing, helping to light the Mockingbird's way as he flitted between the trees in search of his passport to freedom and sweet revenge. From the first day he set eyes on Sansa Stark, he'd dreamed of taking her maidenhead, feeling her delicious pain just as he had her mother. He stopped and sighed. That, alas, was no longer to be. Still, he would get a different sort of pleasure out of the pain he'd use her to bring out of Cat and … "No, he's just a Faceless Man," he whispered to himself.

Then, the edge of his vision picked up an ethereal figure dancing and dodging among the huge elms and black cottonwoods filling the Godswood. Nothing else caught his eye. Sansa was alone. He moved to intercept her.

"Uhh. Uhh. Uhh," she sobbed softly.

Petyr stepped out from a tree. "Sansa," he called.

She pulled up right in front of him, caught right in a moonbeam that reflected off the thick scar in her nearer cheek.

"Oh," she panted in surprise. "Lord Petyr?"

"Yes, sweetling, it's me;" He reached out with both hands and wrapped them around her trembling ones, "your friend Petyr. I've come to rescue you, dear child, from this madness. Joffrey and the Queen, they destroy everything they touch. There's a boat coming. We must move swiftly and …"

Suddenly Sansa shrieked, yanking her hands away from Petyr's.

Something spun the slender man around. A large, dark figure loomed menacingly over him in the night gloom of the godswood. "Clegane …" he sputtered in shock.

"Shut up!" the Dog barked.

Then an unbelievable wave of agony swept over Petyr; pain as great as that long ago day when Brandon Stark gutted him. His legs wobbled dangerously. Sheets of wetness flowed down his front and legs. "Ga … ga … ga" he gasped pointlessly, uncontrollably.

A meaty sound filled his ears. And the dagger of pain left his belly, only to be replaced by an unquenchable cauldron of fire. The Mockingbird looked down in disbelief to see the faint outline of a huge bloody hole in his belly. The few rays of silvery moonlight slipping between the thick trunks and tall branches of Godswood revealed glimpses of white intestines inside that gigantic abyss. Petyr crumpled to the ground.

He heard the sharp intake of Sansa's breath. "Wha … wha … wha," he gargled pitifully. Through the pain radiating within him, Petyr barely felt the stomp of the Hound's boot against his ribs; so much effort to keep his eyes open, everything so black and on fire within him.

"I told you before to shut up, but a mockingbird never knows when to fucking stop chattering," Clegane snarled as he bestrode Petyr's prone body.

"Oh. Oh no. Please," Sansa pleaded.

"Yes!" the mad dog growled.

Petyr's tongue flickered feebly across his lips, every part of his body shivering. 'I must … I must … say ...' Darkness hovered tight around him, swirling and tightening, nearly shutting out any trace of light until miraculously a shaft of gold broke through the veil of black and splattered across his face. 'Ha … ha … so unfair,' he thought as he started to choke and gag. The last thing to go through Lord Petyr Baelish's mockingbird of a mouth was not a wry insult, nor pretty, manipulating words, but Sandor Clegane's piss.


	12. Chapter 12

_Sean chanced a look up at the clock, the ball now on the far side of the pitch about midfield, a minute of injury time already expired. "Ouch," he grunted, watching Nick take a tumble, the longtime Blades centre mid hipped hard by the charging red jerseyed left winger. "Shite." No penalty gesture by the grey clad ref._

_The heavily muscled forward from Crakehall launched a deft centering pass, the receiving red shirt taking it on the thigh and letting it drop to his foot. A neat nudge to the left by the copper haired striker on loan to the Lions from Ashemark pushed the red-gold striped ball just past the centre fullback. "C'mon, Lowton!" Sean yelled at the youngest Blades defender._

_Anger quickly surged to elation, as the Blades' captain, Chris Morgan, all thirteen stone of him slid in to knock the ball away from Marbrand and upend the too smooth corker. "Yes," the ref's staff didn't wave, at least the old tosser was non-calling the penalties fairly. Sean started to back pedal, looking side to side to spot the nearest defenders._

_The ball rolled past a Casterly Rock mid, who only got a toe on it, knocking it straight toward a sprinting Andy. The Blades right fullback snagged the ball barely having to break stride. A red jerseyed Lion surged up into his front and the defender niftily lined a low pass to his right, at the forward moving Quinn. The flaming haired Irishman drove the ball over the midfield line. Sean broke left and headed toward the goal on the far side of the pitch from his charging fellow Blades, hoping to catch his end of the Lion's back four ball watching._

_Lions converged near Stephen Quinn and the mid blooped one over their heads at the talented, but injury prone Darius Henderson, who didn't even let the red-gold ball hit the ground. The Blades dangerous striker swung out his foot and crossed it over the front of the box, aimed out in front of Sean._

_The Sheffield Man dug hard, feeling his cleats digging hard into the thick grass, passing around the mountain of a Lion who was the only man between him and Casterly Rock's pretty boy goal keep. He stretched out a foot and … Wham!_

_Sean saw stars. He lifted his face out of the turf, rubbing chunks of grass away from his eyes. More stars. Ser Ian, grey robes flowing in the wind ran forward, staff held high; blue, and green, and red sparks shooting out to indicate a penalty. Then the wizard stopped in front of the Mountain that had leveled Sean in the act of shooting. The gnarled wood of Ser Ian's staff stopped firing stars and traced a square in the air, which immediately turned red._

"_Fuck that!" bellowed Gregor Clegane, steaming at having been sent off by the grey clad referee._

_Ser Ian serenely walked away, going to pick up the red-gold striped ball while waving at Sean to pick himself and come take a penalty kick. The Mountain moved to follow the wizard, causing both linesmen to run over and cut him off. Daragh in a green coat and Brad in a plumed bronze helmet grabbed Clegane's massive arms and walked him backward toward the Casterly Rock bench and a screaming Cersei wearing a three piece suit._

_The lad from Sheffield slowly stood up. His head ached. Darius and Mark and Stephen and Chris and Andy all came up and slapped him on the back and shoulders, shouting words of encouragement at him. But he couldn't hear a thing between the ringing in his ears and the deafening cries of the United fans filling the King's Landing tourney grounds. "I'm good. I'm good," he muttered._

_Sean reached the penalty spot in the middle of the box. Ser Ian placed the ball in front of him. He looked down at the mostly round shaped object, ignoring how the golden boy in the net was setting up and debating whether to shoot left or right. The stern face of Tywin Lannister stared back up at him, and then the red and gold striped head's left eye winked mischievously at him. 'Oh, it's Charles,' he thought. And with that he took two quick steps forward and belted one to the left._

_Jaime Lannister dove, but the chopped off head rose on a steady, straight line, passing just above the Kingslayer's outstretched arms._

"_GOAL!"_

_The ending horn blew._

_Sean found himself swarmed by his screaming mates. The Blades had just won the WA Cup, defeating the Casterly Rock Lions by the score of three to two. Sheffield United were the Westeros Association champions._

Not Ned moaned. His head felt liked it'd been run over by a lorry. His tongue clove to the top of a very dry mouth. He wasn't completely sure, but he suspected it was his mouth. It didn't taste good. He rolled over, flinging out an arm to steady himself, just in case the ground was moving. 'No, not moving,' he reassured himself after a minute. Something didn't feel right. Something was missing. His arm started probing around the pile of hides and blankets on which he uncomfortably rested. "Oh, that's it," he mumbled. No Cat.

Time passed.

He stared at the roof of the tent.

Finally he noted that sunlight illuminated the sheeting of the tent top.

"Boy, did I get gassed," he muttered. Scenes of last night' trickled through his pounding nob. Adrenaline cut through some of his haze. "Bollocks!" he sword. "Hope I didn't bugger things. Stay on script next time Sean old son."

"Are you alive, my lord?" called that sweet not Michelle voice from somewhere outside.

"Arg," he gargled in reply.

A light laugh answered him. The tent flap moved. "I've brought tea," Cat announced.

"Bloody good," he said expectantly. The promise of a cuppa, made Sean sit up, regardless of the renewed pounding of horse hooves in his skull. When things cleared, he saw his lady wife holding a steaming mug and gazing at him with that 'look' he well remembered. Four wives will teach a bit of body language, and it appeared this look was universal to both Westeros and home; love tinged with a hint of disappointment. The impossible part for Sean was keeping the look from turning into disappointment tinged with a hint of love. 'Then, you're fuck all,' he thought.

"Ahem," he cleared his throat. "I take it nothing of importance has happened," he said with embarrassment.

"No, my lord," she answered with an amused glint. "Ser Olyvar told me that fires broke out in the city over night."

Fear instantly leapt to not Ned's face. "Not wildfire?" he choked out.

Cat laughed softly. "We'd have woken you through your snores for that, Ned. Just rioting. My uncle says it may be a sign that the city is turning on the Lannisters. He thinks tonight might be a good time to bribe one of the gates."

Sean let out a small sigh of relief. "Yes, it might be," he agreed. "I think Ser Jacelyn is the best wager there. I knew him a bit during the Greyjoy rebellion, you know. Though I wish he commanded other than the Mud Gate. Hard to sneak a large enough force through the wharfs unseen," he rambled.

Cat at last offered him the mug of tea.

He eyed the tea. He eyed his wife. None of his wives would ever claim apologies came easy to Sean. "I'm sorry Cat," he murmured. Her eyebrows raised in surprise. 'Maybe old Ned wasn't good at apologizing either,' he thought. "Last night," he continued softly. "I spoke ill. I acted unbecoming of a lord and a knight. I wrongly disparaged honor. My honor. Our family's honor. Your honor. Forgive me."

Not Michelle's face crumpled. "Ned, no Ned," she warbled. The mug of tea dropped out of her shaking hand.

'Damn, I needed that.'

Cat launched herself into his arms.

"Ooof," he croaked, getting knocked over.

"Hang honor," she sniffled. "I was so scared, Ned. Wh … wh … when …"

"I lost my head?" he snickered.

Her beautiful blue eyes practically exploded out of her face. "Nooo. I … I …

"It's alright," Sean reassured her. "You can say it."

She clasped a hand over her mouth a moment before bursting, "Seven save me, Eddard Stark, yes, it's true."

"And?" he prodded gently, drawing her face down into the crook of his neck.

"I stopped caring about honor too. I … I … didn't even care about avenging you, Ned. Though I'd scratch Cersei's eyes out if I ever saw her, the bitch," Cat spluttered.

'Meow. Now that would be a cat fight!' Sean thought as he stroked her hair.

"But … but all I cared about was keeping Robb alive. Getting Sansa and Arya home safe, to Winterfell. I'd have sacrificed anything for the fighting and killing to stop Ned. Anything," she wailed, tears dripping off her cheeks on to not Ned's skin. "I was thrilled last night, when you spoke of family and children as more important than damned honor. But I was scared too. Too scared to agree with you in front of the others. And scared for you, and what … how you've changed; you're the most honorable man I've ever known. Oh Ned, Ned, what's happened to us."

"Shhhh," Sean whispered softly in her ear, wishing for an easy answer, but not having a script at hand. The actor wracked his brain for a good quote, 'Better to die ten thousand deaths, than wound my honor? Sod off Addison! If I lose my honor I lose myself? Tosh Shakespeare. Honor is purchased by the deeds we do? Bugger that Marlowe. What would George say?' Then the answer leapt to him and a smile split his face. "Family, Duty, Honor," he murmured.

"What?" Cat asked through her sniffles, hearing her husband say the Tully motto.

"Family, Duty, Honor," not Ned repeated. "I think you might be familiar with those words. And you may have noticed, 'Family' comes first. So I don't think the Others will take you for caring about your children before your honor."

And with that he felt the tension start to ease out of his not wife.

After a few minutes of tender, silent snuggling, not Michelle chirped, "Thank you Ned."

He kissed the top of her head in response. 'How soon before I can get a cuppa,' he wondered.

"Ned?" she asked hesitantly.

'What now?' "Hhhmmmn?"

"Robb and Arya talked to me this morning. They're worried that you've changed too."

'Jesus!'

* * *

"Three of them, my lord," Olyvar announced.

Sean squinted into the distance. "I don't see a white cloak. Any guesses on who our guests might be?" 'Lens,' he thought. His eyes weren't getting any younger; one more modern improvement to add to his already quite full mental checklist.

"Lord Rosby, I believe, my lord," Robb said.

"Ah, our consumptive friend of yesterday. This might prove interesting."

And when the trio refused Galbart Glover's entreaties to pass through the siege line and enter the Northern's camp, Sean took it upon himself to make amends for his ill treatment of the last Lannister ambassadors and walked out to meet them. "Lord Gyles, a pleasant surprise to see you again. And who may I ask has the pleasure of joining you here today?"

The perpetually hacking lord mixed a perplexed look with his mandatory rattling of phlegm. Cough. Cough. "My Lord Stark, surely you remember …" Cough. "… young Lord Lancel and Lord Slynt?"

'Oh-ho. _This_ will be fun.' "Of course they are," not Ned affably agreed. "You must forgive me Lord Gyles, I fear I've grown horrible remembering which name belongs with which head since Ser Ilyn shaved off my own."

The Lord of Rosby didn't know how to respond to that little jab and simply smiled between hacks in response.

"Lord Slynt."

"Lord Stark," the butcher's son replied.

"I hope you found the payment for betraying me to your satisfaction," Sean teased.

"Joffrey is the rightful King, there was no betrayal, only justice for a traitor," the jowly bald man declared self-righteously.

"Be sure to keep telling yourself that, Lord Slynt, when Stannis Baratheon sits on the Iron Throne," Sean laughed. "I'm sure his mercy will equal, or even exceed, that shown by Joffrey."

"Harrumph."

Not Ned turned toward the last member of the party. "Lord Lancel, such a long time since dear Robert sent you scurrying across the tourney grounds in search of a plate spreader for his armor. Tasted any good wines lately? Robert surely loved his wine, didn't he?"

The petulant teen scowled.

"Now that I've charmed you all, tell me why have you come? I don't see my daughter or either of Lord Varys or Lord Baelish. For the Kingslayer's sake, I hope Cersei has agreed to meet my demands."

Cough. Cough. "The Queen, though she loves her brother, …"

'And doesn't she though?' he thought mockingly.

"… believes your price too steep. The Lords are trusted members of her own …" Cough. "… Small Council. She will offer you Lord Baelish and your daughter Sansa in exchange for …" Cough. "… her brother," Rosby droned between periodic interruptions.

Sean laughed. "So the Eunuch has escaped the web? How pathetic."

"Not so!" blustered Janos Slynt.

"Then you admit to having both noble Sers cooped up in the Red Keep?"

"No one is cooped anywhere, Stark," Lancel Lannister complained bitterly.

"Tsk. Tsk. How foolish of your sweet, sweet cuz, eh Lancel?" not Ned chortled. "Well, in that case, I reject Cersei's counter proposal. But I'll let you take a trinket of the Kingslayer's back to his sister as proof of how serious I am. Greatjon! Lord Roose!"

"Yes, my lord?" "Yes, my lord?"

"Bring me Ser Jaime and a sharp knife."

"My lord …" Cough. "… is this necessary?" Lord Gyles wheezed.

"Absolutely."

"He is your honorable prisoner," Janos Slynt protested.

"A knight who throws small children out of windows has no honor. Neither does one who shags his own sister. Since we're talking about the same fine fellow in both instances, I will treat him no better than the dog he is," not Ned explained. "Now since he is your cousin, Lord Lancel, I'll let you choose which finger he loses first. I'd suggest his non-sword hand." 'I wonder which one he wanks with?'

"My L … l … lord Stark," Lancel stuttered. "This is wrong. The Seven will curse your soul."

"Like they did at Baelor's Sept, when Joffrey took my head? Well the Old Gods seem to have a different plan, don't they? Let's see if the Seven can restore your cousin's finger. Jon, make the cur heel. Roose, stand on his hand. I wouldn't want it shaking so much I take off more than I promised."

Jaime Lannister struggled mightily against the unchained giant's grip on him, but to no avail. The Young Lion soon found himself sprawled in the mud and muck, the Greatjon sitting forcefully on his back on shoulders. Immediately, the Leech Lord placed a boot down on the Kingslayer's wrist.

"A knife, Lord Roose? A flaying one, if you please?" Sean asked, his stomach turning at the possibility his bluff wouldn't be called.

A faint smile appeared on Bolton's pale lips as he pulled out a thin skinning blade.

"Cousin," the Kingslayer pleaded when not Ned accepted the sharp edged piece of metal.

Sean began to squat.

"Lord Stark!" Lancel whined.

The actor stopped and looked up at the blonde haired teen. 'Have you been end away with Cersei yet, boy?' He sighed. "Well since you refused to choose which finger, Lancel, I'll have to pick one myself. Lord Roose, would you mind stepping on the Kingslayer's sword hand? Without a thumb, his blade won't be much use to his sister."

Again the Young Lion struggled desperately, trying to tuck his right arm beneath his body, but he was no match for the Greatjon's strength.

Crunch. Roose Bolton's boot came down heavily, trapping the other hand.

"Cousin!" Jaime Lannister begged.

"Lord Stark!" both the toad Janos Slynt and the asthmatic Gyles Rosby cried.

Sean ignored their appeals and knelt to the ground, placing the thin blade at the base of the Kingslayer's thumb. He pressed lightly, breaking the skin enough for red to seep out. 'Hope I don't heave,' he prayed.

"Alright! Alright! We'll bring them both! I swear it!" Lancel screamed.

Sean looked up. Tepid disappointment showed on Bolton's face while a big shit eating grin spread across the Greatjon's. He lifted the knife. "Do you promise to remain here as a hostage against your cousin's behavior, until the exchange is made for my daughter and both Lords Varys and Baelish?"

Lancel nodded his head briskly.

"Thank you," the Kingslayer said with a shudder.

"Good. So please get off your mount, Ser." As Lancel hopped down, Sean stood up and turned to the other two lordlings. "I give you two hours. Now be off!"


	13. Chapter 13

After watching the Hacking Lord and the Butcher Pig scurry off on their horses to report back to the Bitch Queen and her nasty son, not Ned turned back to the others gathered near him. "Lord Jon, Lord Roose, kindly take _Ser_ Jaime," and the knightly rank dripped with contempt, "somewhere and clean him up. Make sure he appears as one becoming the _honorable_ station of a Kingsguard. When his dear, dear sister first lays eyes on him, we wouldn't want her to think we've mistreated the _noble_ fellow." Sean flashed a wicked grin and jerked his head towards the siege line.

"Right, you are, my Lord," the Greatjon chirped cheerfully, easing his massive arse off the the Kingslayer's back and then practically picking the prisoner up out of the mud and muck he'd been plastered into.

"I'll see to his finger wound," Bolton droned pleasantly. "A leech or two will make sure nothing festers.

Beside the actor, Lancel shivered slightly at the mention of the proposed course of treatment.

"Please do, Lord Roose. Very considerate of you to take such a personal interest," not Ned answered.

"Fuck you, Stark," the Kingslayer snarled.

"Wash his eyes too, I think he mistakes me for his sister," the actor retorted.

"Others take you, you black hearted …"

Not Ned tilted his head slightly to turn an icy gaze on the Greatjon, who responded instantly by thumping the Lannister on his skull and shutting him up.

"Now Lord Edmure, I think a drink is in order. Would you please escort our guest, Lord Lancel here, to my pavilion and see to the libations? I'll be along shortly to join you," Sean said cheerily, purposefully ignoring the spectacle of the half conscious Kingslayer being dragged off.

"Assuredly, Lord Eddard," not Ned's not goodbrother answered. "Please come, good Ser. I believe we still have an unopened bottle of Arbor gold we might avail ourselves of. If we hurry, we might drink most of it before other, less discerning palates arrive to clamor for a taste."

The pimply Lannister sprog nodded his head petulantly in agreement, clearly unhappy with all that had been occurring. Nevertheless he did march off with an alacrity that suggested a sense of relief at being parted, if only temporarily, from the Lord of Winterfell's company.

With both guests departed, the other nobles still remaining about tightened up about Sean. "So my lords, sers, were you satisfied with my performance?" the actor inquired.

The brothers Glover and Lord Cerwyn coughed nervously, not wanting to respond.

"I could not tell if you were a madman or a brilliant mummer, my lord," the Blackfish courageously answered. "Perhaps all mummers are a tad mad?"

'You have no idea,' Sean thought. "Indeed," he replied. "It was a stroke of luck Cersei sent her young cousin Lancel as a member of the embassy. He can safely be relied upon to be a slender reed."

"Your ploy last night, milord," old Ser Stevron said approvingly. "The lions, snakes, and spiders have come home to roost. The Pride Queen has too few left to trust, so she sends a boy."

Sean scratched his scruffy beard. "Yes, a boy," he agreed with an evil smile. "A boy set to inherit Casterly Rock."

"But, my lord," Rickard Karstark interjected. "I thought?"

"No, to the Wall and the Silent Sisters, if they live. But Lancel? If he survives the sack?" And the evil smile grew wider yet. "Who among you has an eligible daughter?"

Medger Cerwyn broke out first. "My Jonelle is a fair maiden."

"And long in the tooth," fat Wylis Manderly declared. "Now my Wylla is a proper colt, with enough spirit to tame that wee cub."

"Lord Greatjon isn't here," said Robb, chiming in. "T'would be amiss to not mention he has a pair of eligible daughters. Or at least I think they're still eligible."

Jason Mallister chuckled, "For Casterly Rock, I think the Greatjon would happily find himself less one goodson." A comment which raised laughter out of all the lordlings.

"Why should only the North be allowed contenders to the prize?" asked Ser Stevron with sly amiability.

Brynden Tully scowled. "The Freys are already in line to inherit through your brother Emmon. 'Tis marriage to Winterfell not enough? Must your father's brood also rule Casterly Rock."

The other lords of the Riverlands barked their agreement with the Blackfish's viewpoint until Jonos Bracken piped up. "My Stone Hedge has been ravaged, and me with five daughters to dower. A red filly of my house would pair well with a golden lion."

"And all Casterly Rock's gold would marry well with your treasure chest too, wouldn't it Bracken?" Tytos Blackwood snapped.

"And what of it?" Lord Jonos complained loudly.

"My Wayfarer's Rest is just as ruined as your Stone Hedge, Bracken. I've daughters too and my lands are closer to the Westerlands. I've a better claim, man," cried Karyl Vance.

"And what of Pinkmaiden?" Marq Piper demanded. "My father has no daughters to whore to the Lannisters. Who will give us gold to rebuild?"

A tumult threatened. "My Lords! Sers!" barked Sean in his best command voice. "Behave yourselves. The Lannisters will pay for their crimes against you and your smallfolk, fear not. Lord .. King Stannis is known as a just man. But understand this, while none of us will get as much as we think we deserve; the true king will not give short shrift to any lord in favor of another."

The group shared dissatisfied grumblings until Maege Mormont roughly cleared her throat. "T'wouldn't be no work a'tall fer Dacey ta keep that little boy's puny cock locked up all safe like. T'lion wouldn't crap wid'out t'she bear's sayin' so."

Sean snorted so hard he almost started to choke.

Rickard Karstark was the first to start laughing.

In moments the squabbling lords were guffawing and joking at the idea of the feisty Dacey making limp Lancel a kept man.

* * *

"Lord Edmure. Lord Lancel," Sean announced, entering the oversized tent cum headquarters and seeing the pair sipping from goblets.

The slight smile on the young lion's face quickly turned dour.

"I hope you found the vintage to your satisfaction."

"Yes, Lord Stark" the callow youth murmured.

"And the conversation? At least until I arrived," the actor said matter of factly.

The dour expression turned to an outright frown, and he straightened his slender frame to the utmost. "Lord Edmure is a knightly lord," Lancel haughtily replied.

Sean nodded his head in agreement while walking over to the table on which the bottle of Arbor gold sat. "That he is. Ahhhh," he said with satisfaction, wobbling the bottle sufficiently to detect plenty of wine remained in side. As he poured himself a glass, he continued, "And a man who knows his lordly responsibility. The war will end soon enough and my goodbrother, as heir to Riverrun, must then marry soon so as to ensure the Tully name continues. Isn't that right, Edmure."

The stocky, red haired man responded coolly, "I suppose."

Sean chuckled lightly. "Don't worry, Edmure, I'm not buttock brokering … yet." He took a sip of the Arbor gold, not quite a chardonnay; definitely more full bodied than a sauvignon blanc or a pinot grigio, and certainly not a champagne or other sparkling wine. "Oh that's good. The wine that makes its way to the North is hardly better than horse piss and vinegar. Now what of your future, Lancel? When the war is over?"

The sandy haired teen's green eyes stared daggers at not Ned.

The actor sighed. "You needn't die, Lancel. We're not ogres." 'Oops, do they have ogres here?' "… or giants."

"I'll fight you to my last breath, defending my King, my family, my honor!" the youth blazed.

"Of course you will," Edmure agreed soothingly. "No one would expect other from you."

'Hmmmn, can I go good cop, bad cop?' Sean wondered. "But in the end, it will be your last breath," he said seriously.

"We'll bu … kill you when you try to storm the walls," Lancel retorted.

Sean took another sip. 'Go easy mate, your killer hangover only just took holiday.' "Yes, don't worry, we know about the wildfire Cersei has the pyromancers making."

"Why do you think we haven't attacked yet," Edmure interjected reasonably. "Lord Eddard's more worried about the gold cloaks accidentally setting King's Landing on fire than he is about our lads getting hit."

'Smooth, Edmure. Very smooth.' "It's just a matter of time, Lancel. We have twenty five thousand warriors against what? Five? Six thousand gold cloaks? And King Stannis will arrive within a week from Dragonstone with equal your numbers," not Ned ground on with relentless logic. "The Queen's uncle Stafford is trying to train an army of ten thousand raw smallfolks in the Westerlands; but they won't be ready for months and they aren't nearly enough. Face facts, the only army that can oppose us is Renly's. You do know of his alliance with the Tyrells?"

The anger slowly seeped out of the lad, replaced by nerves and angst. "How?" Ahem. "Cersei, that is the Queen … how can … ?"

Not Ned shook his head grimly. "I gave her that chance before. You remember how that turned out."

"The lives of Cersei, Jaime, and Joffrey are forfeit, I'm afraid," Edmure said sadly.

"But what of Tommen and Myrcella?" Lancel whined.

"They're bastards," Sean icily responded.

"They're not!" the youth protested loudly.

Not Ned strode close to the blonde trying to grow a mustache and whispered in his ear. "Cersei takes you to her bed. Did you really think you were her first Lannister lover."

"No!" Lancel yelled, angrily swinging a fist that struck Sean a glancing blow on his chest.

"SER!" Edmure shouted in disapproval.

Sean grabbed the brat's recalcitrant wrist, his wintry blue eyes staring down the sprog's softer green ones. He shook the wrist. "Did you?" he hissed.

Face red from hate or exertion or embarrassment, Lancel at last wheezed a distraught, soft, "No," and looked to the ground.

"So where does that leave you, Lancel?" not Ned asked in a voice so quiet, so menacing, Roose Bolton would have approved. The boy didn't answer. The actor shook his wrist again. "Where?"

"I … I dunno," came the sullen answer.

Sean let go of the sprog and stepped back with a smile. "Why it leaves you as heir to Casterly Rock. That's something to live for isn't it?"

A confused look spread over Lancel's face. "Wha .. what about the im … cousin Tyrion. His head isn't …" an angry, sullen expression quickly replaced the confusion "… isn't on the spikes next to father's and Uncle Tywin's. I thought he … that you had him as …"

"A dwarf's head is too small to fit nicely on a spike," Sean replied.

Edmure snickered.

Lancel tried to look outraged, but failed. "What will happen to Tommen and Myrcella, then" he wondered softly.

Edmure cleared his throat. "Tommen will be sent to the Wall. Myrcella will be made a Silent Sister. She'll probably live on Dragonstone."

'Unless Melisandre decides to burn her for heresy,' Sean thought snarkily.

"Lord … King Stannis … he's a hard man. How … how can you be sure he'll …"

"And he's a man who'll have won the Iron Throne thanks in the man to the two lords now sharing some rather excellent wine with you, Lord Lancel," the actor explained. "And no one would ever call Stannis Baratheon stupid. It will be easier to rule the Seven Kingdoms with the Westerlands ruled by the recognized heir of House Lannister. The war must end. Winter is coming," not Ned said solemnly.

"And all I have to do is betray my family," the boy said bitterly.

"No, we would never ask you to dishonor yourself so, Lord Lancel. All we're asking is that you don't die. If not you, then Lord Edmure here already has your brother Willem as his guest in Riverrun. He'd do just as well I suppose."

Lancel Lannister nodded his pretty blonde head in resignation at his fate.

'Time for a bone.' "When you escort your cousin Jaime back into King's Landing, would you like to take Lord Kevan's bones with you?" Sean asked solicitously.

The youth's effeminate lips pursed in thought. "May I take Uncle Tywin's bones too?"

Not Ned shook his head in the negative.

"Then … no. I … I fear Cersei might take it as a slight."

'Smart lad,' Sean thought. 'Maybe you're not as completely stupid as I hoped.'


	14. Chapter 14

Horns blew from atop the city wall to announce the coming of the embassy from King Joffrey Baratheon, last of his name, and hopefully the three 'guests' to be exchanged.

"My lords," both his chubby squire Merle Waterman and his efficient aide de camp Olyvar called out at the same time.

Sean rolled his eyes at Cat. "Yes, we're not deaf," he declared loud from inside his personal tent for the pair outside to hear.

Arya snorted in amusement.

His lady wife smiled briefly, overlaying the fears she'd just been expressing, torturing herself with really, about her daughter. "Do you … will she?" not Michelle stuttered.

He stepped in quickly and gave her a hug. "Sansa will be fine. Remember, no matter what they did to her, true beauty and honor lies within." After four ex-wives, each very fit, Sean hoped his platitude held a scintilla of truth; not that he minded in the least Cat's saucy figure and sweet naughty bits. Just pressing against her, the actor felt his knob begin to react. 'Down ya unruly git,' he urged his groin. Sean disengaged, dropping his hands down her arms until he clasped her hands. "Now shall we go?" he asked softly.

She stifled a sniffle and nodded her head.

He smiled reassuringly at her a moment and then turned towards not Maisie. "Think you can behave, Arya?"

She grinned impudently.

Sean beamed back at her, delighted by her spunk. "I know that look, child. The moment I turn my back, you'll be up to something. Where's needle?"

"Father," she protested with false outrage.

"You'll need a guard," he said with mock severity. "Hhmmn, Merle won't have anything better to do."

"Ha!" Arya barked, clearly not impressed with not Ned's suggestion.

"Well, then it will have to be Olyvar," he declared.

A small, shy smile appeared on his not daughter's long face. "Weellllll," she drawled. "If you must."

Cat caught his eye, and lightly bobbed her head at the girl.

He shrugged noncommittally in response. 'Arya could do worse,' the actor thought. 'But let's see if he catches Sansa's fancy once she's …" Images of slender, delicate Sophie beaten, burned, and broken welled up within him, threatening his cool Ned demeanor, until he cast her picture into that deep, dark place he hid so much of his humanity. "… there's no rush for either of them, I suppose.'

* * *

When the three of them left the warmth of the tent for the cool air of the last day in February, much of the camp was up and stirring with nervous anticipation. Every man jack in the army knew of the eldest Stark daughter's cruel imprisonment and her exchange for the Kingslayer arranged by the 'Returned Lord Eddard, Blessed of the Old Gods.' Large groups of hardened warriors and merciless killers swirled about, like the bastardized Stag and Lion banners above the parapets of the Dragon Gate, seeking any open spot in the front ranks of the siege lines from which to watch the coming spectacle and catch a glimpse, a morbid glimpse even, of the young lady. Standing not far away were Merle, holding the reins of two horses, and Olyvar, gripping those to a mount hardly bigger than a pony.

"Your horses, my lord, my lady, … my lumpy," not Ned's aide de camp announced cheerily.

"Why you …" Arya spat and charged straight at the source of the teasing.

Olyvar promptly dropped the reins and bent over to receive her charge.

"Arya!" Sean called out in irritation, now not being the time for petty, juvenile squabbling.

"Yeeehaaa!" the diminutive rascal shouted and leapt into the air.

"Oh god," the actor muttered.

And then surprisingly, miraculously, one slightly muddy child sized leather boot landed on Olyvar shoulder, upper back and instantly pushed off, propelling Arya even higher.

Thud.

'Well she stuck the landing,' Sean thought, struggling not to wince while at the same time impressed with his not daughter's agile mounting off her saddle.

"Tada!" she squealed.

Cat gasped and then broke out a laugh.

Olyvar straightened back up, a smug look on his face.

Not Ned didn't say a thing. He simply escorted not Michelle to her horse and helped her mount in a significantly less dramatic fashion. His squire handed her up the reins. Sean accepted his reins from Merle, bobbing a quick acknowledging smile to the lad, and climbed atop his own horse. He turned his mount so it faced Olyvar. He chilled his eyes and put on the Ned face. Then and only then did he speak. "Ser," he ground out coldly. His aide de camp gulped anxiously. "You appear to be dirty." And Sean gestured with a gloved finger at the dirty boot print on the ermine trimmed cape over the young man's shoulder. Olyvar's brown eyes blinked in surprise. "Kindly make yourself presentable before you appear at the parley."

"Yes, my lord,"

Arya snickered.

Sean cleared his throat loudly and turned his head to stare intently at not Maisie. "And you young lady. Was that the best you could do?" he demanded scornfully, full knowing if he'd tried that stunt his balls would have been crushed.

"I … well … father?" she stuttered, unsure how to respond

"The next time, I better see a flip in the air," and he spun a forefinger in circles to emphasize his point, "before you land in the saddle, or else its back to a month's sewing before I let you touch Needle again. Understand?"

Arya's draw dropped in surprise, but she was clever enough to nod her head in agreement.

"Good. Come my lady," he announced, and spurred his horse.

Catelyn quickly caught up to him. "Ned," she scolded, but he could hear the humor underlying the admonishment.

"With that one, it would just be a matter of time anyway, my love," he chuckled.

* * *

One of the two massive oak and iron doors in the Dragon Gate moaned eerily to announce its opening. But no fire breathing, antediluvian, George RR Martin concocted beast emerged from the disturbing din. Only six horses and six riders slowly came forth, three of slight stature and three wearing white armor beneath billowing white cloaks.

Not Ned waited beside Cat, with Arya on her other side. Next down from her came Robb, Grey Wind, his sweet gaped tooth wife Roslin, and lastly Roslin's brother Olyvar; who had followed immediately behind Sean and Cat through the camp and out past siege lines having smartly just discarded his stained cape to make himself 'presentable.' On the actor's other side his not goodbrother Edmure, a role not portrayed during the season, sat a strawberry roan that mimicked his own hair color. Just past Edmure came Lancel, the Blackfish, the Kingslayer, and lastly the Greatjon. No horse for Lord Umber though. The ridiculously large man stood menacingly beside not Niko, keeping a firm grip on the good looking, sister fucking, and homicidal maniac.

"Is that … is that Sansa?" Cat gasped, pointing at the tiniest figure, wrapped up in a Winterfell grey hooded cloak.

Sean swallowed nervously, as his imagination tried to slip out of the dark place. 'She's not your daughter, mate,' a happy go lucky voice whispered. 'She doesn't know that, prat,' his conscience retorted.

"Lord Baelish appears ill," Olyvar interjected, using his young, sharp eyes to spy out anything amiss with the party riding deliberately on the paved stones of the Kingsroad leading out of the city. "Is he tied in to his saddle?"

"I can't imagine he's coming willingly," Edmure snickered.

"No, Ser Olyvar's right," Robb replied, agreeing with his friend, goodbrother, and for a short few weeks squire. "It's like he's … propped up or something."

Brynden cleared his throat. "Is there something we should have been told, Lord Lancel," he rumbled ominously.

All heads turned to stare at the slender reed. Lancel's face immediately turned red and sweat sprung up on his forehead.

"Boooy," Sean snarled threateningly.

Grey Wind added a low, deep growl.

"Lord Lancel," Edmure cajoled in a reproachful tone.

The sandy haired teen trembled and shuddered from the condemnation pressing on him. "Heee's … heee's …"

"Out with it damn you!" barked the Blackfish.

"heee's dead … uhhnnnfffffffffffffff"

"Hahahah, oh well done, cuz!" the Kingslayer cheered as a spray of vomit heaved out of Lancel's mouth, most of it fortunately making its way to the ground, and not on to the little shit or those on either side of him.

A bevy of "ews" and various other expressions of disgust spilled out of most everyone else's mouths, until the Greatjon bellowed, "No you don't," and clutched tightly to his prisoner's reins and saddle straps, muscles bulging to keep the horse from bolting. The Kingslayer simply shrugged his shoulders at the foiled escape and kept laughing at his cousin's discomfort.

Ptth, ptth spat the sprog, trying to clear the acidic taste of bile from his mouth.

"Here," Edmure said disgustedly, handing over a wineskin to the puke breathed berk.

The boy rinsed, spat, rinsed and spat again, and finally took a healthy swallow; which was followed by a loud, odiferous belch.

Another brief chorus of "ews" erupted as the new wave of stench spread forth.

Lancel reached out a hand, proffering the wineskin back to Edmure; only to see the offer rejected by the Tully heir's look of revulsion.

"Tell us all," Brynden hissed.

"Do so! Now!" not Ned commanded, hand resting on the hilt of his sword.

Lancel took a few deep breaths and swallowed hard to steady his nerves, and hopefully is stomach. "Littlefinger. He … ah … sweet talked the Queen. He admitted the truth to your, uhm, accusations."

"What?!" Sean barked in surprise.

"Yes, yes, he did, truly. And twisted his explanation all around as to show he supported the Lannisters and, uhm, protected the King .. that is Joffrey, when he was a prince; not King Robert."

'Cheeky, fucking genius bugger.' "So Cersei let Baelish go free?" not Ned asked in confusion. "Then who killed him?"

"No, no," the lad sputtered. "She let him return to his rooms in the Holdfast, but under the guard of Captain Vylarr and Ser Arrys. The traitor's assassins surprised them, killing them, and setting Littlefinger free. He .. ah .. then tried to kidnap the lady Sansa."

Catelyn gasped in shock.

"But the Hound guessed his dastardly intent and met him with cold steel. Hahaha," Lancel chuckled timidly.

'Good dog,' the actor thought.

"And no harm came to my sister?" Robb shouted.

"Ahhh, no, not then," the puker answered hestitantly.

'Bastards!' "And did Lord Varys resign himself to his fate … more readily?"

The sandy haired head shook a vigorous no.

"He appears alive," declared Olyvar, scanning again the oncoming party.

"Tell us," not Ned exhaled icily.

"Ahhh, after the Hound returned, the Queen, after, uh, a most vigorous demonstration."

A term that made Cersei's brother laugh yet again.

"… ordered the eunuch to remain in her ballroom, surrounded by red cloaks and both Ser Boros …"

"Useless cunt," the Kingslayer suddenly spat, though it was unclear whether he meant Cersei or Blount."

"and Ser Trant."

"Did Varys' so called little birds come home to roost?" the Blackfish inquired.

Lancel's green eyes got big. "Yes, the wretches snuck in threw secret entrances, firing crossbows. Ser Boros and several red cloaks fell dead under the initial onslaught, until Ser Meryn placed a blade at the eunuch's next and the remaining red cloaks charged the little demons."

"And Varys, otherwise, escaped unharmed?" Edmure asked.

"Well … mostly," the sprog agreed.

* * *

At twenty yards, brief formalities were exchanged and the simply terms of the prisoner swap confirmed. As best he could tell at that distance, with a hood hanging low over Sansa's face, his not daughter's eyes appeared haunted and horrified. Littlefinger's eyes of course appeared lifeless, no attempt having been made to give the dead man a more dignified presence. The abrasions and puffiness of Varys face showed the vicious manhandling his escape attempt had earned him. Sean felt no pity for the spider, especially since his usual pretense of amiability and sycophancy was now replaced by an aura of pure hate.

"You first," not Ned called.

By the red beard, Sean suspected it was Meryn Trant who smacked the rump of Baelish's sorry nag, sending it trotting over the gap between the two embassies. Olyvar spurred his horse and intercepted the dead man.

"You," called out a white cloak with emotionless eyes sitting as minder on Sansa.

'Mandon Moore?' the actor thought, trying to match faces with what he remembered from George's books. "Live another day, Lord Lancel," he called out, hoping the little puker would remember his offer and not turn piker. Mentally Sean shrugged. There was only so much you can control. He'd done his best. Besides, they still had the shite's younger brother, the next in the line of succession, under lock and key.

Once the Kingslayer's 'cuz' reached the other side, the blonde white cloak who not Ned had met the day before, Preston Greenfield, whispered something nasty to the eunuch and jabbed the not man's horse hard to get it moving. Even with hands tied, Varys navigated his mount straight at not Ned, causing the Blackfish to move forward and cut off the evil creature.

As the traitor and spy passed by, Sean, with a superior, smug smile said in a light, cheerful voice, "Varys, hope you enjoy your stay, no matter how brief it turns out."

"Faceless Man," was all the eunuch hissed in response.

"You," demanded Mandon Moore.

Not Ned nodded his head once at the Greatjon. Upon the unchained giant releasing his reins, the Kingslayer trotted his horse in a semicircle to plant his smug face in front of not Ned. "I'll kill you Stark," he proclaimed with his typical, easy arrogance. "I've watched you, oh yes I have, north man. You're neither as fast nor as strong as when I last saw you swing a sword."

'I'm not even the 'man' I was then,' Sean thought, fully aware his real age and movie set trained sword skills made him a pale imitation of what everyone expected from Lord Eddard Stark. Still, he adlibbed a snappy comeback with an appropriate cocky grin, "What is dead may never die, Lannister. Or did you forget I've already survived your family's worst."

"Flee now little man," the Greatjon bellowed stepping forward.

The Kingslayer threw a sneer at the Umber giant, but nevertheless quickly yanked on his mount's reins to turn the horse back towards King's Landing.

"Go," Mandon Moore said to his charge.

Sansa sat petrified, unmoving on her slight mare.

"Go!" the white cloak shouted. When still she didn't move, he muttered, "Stupid wolfbitch. She's all yours Stark," he then called and started backing up his horse, causing the rest of his newly composed party to begin withdrawing back to the Dragon Gate.

"Catelyn," he whispered. Then together, not Ned and his not wife urged their mounts ahead until they bookended the brutalized girl.

Sansa's breath came in short, staccato bursts as she pivoted her frightened dull blue eyes back and forth between her parents.

Cat reached out a hand and whispered, "Your safe now."

Sansa jerked back afraid the moment her mother touched her.

"It's alright, sweetling," Sean said as gently as he could muster. Truly he wanted to scream his rage. The wary child before him sprouted both new and old bruises; her left cheekbone evidently broken and grotesquely swollen. And perhaps worst of all, aside from a crushed, terorized psyche, someone had slashed her face, crisscrossing her features with angry red, shiny scars. 'Oh you bastards!' he howled within.

A gloved hand reached tentatively up towards the actor's face. "Father?" a scared, tiny voice croaked.

"Yes, princess?" he answered softly.

"Is it really you?" she sobbed quietly.

"Yes."

Her hand stopped at the top of his chest. "Truly?" she whispered.

He smiled as kindly and reassuringly as he could. "Of course."

The hand pressed against the bottom of his throat. "Can I?" she gasped.

Realization struck him. Of course! He reached up, tugging aside his thick cloak and pulling down the chainmail shirt to reveal his neck. "See? Not even a scar. It's all better Sansa. Everything will be good again, I promise." 'Oh god I hope so.'

"I'm so sorry, father," she sobbed and suddenly tears gushed out of the broken girl. Broken by the unforgivable sins committed against her and by the unbearable memory of her own betrayal of poor, doomed, too honorable for his own good Ned.

Regardless of the girl's stupid, deadly mistake, Sean knew he'd excuse Evie, Lorna, and Molly anything; and they lived in the real world, not this fucked up place made of George's worst nightmares. He reached over and drew her stiff, frightened body into an embrace. "It's alright Sansa. There's nothing to forgive, sweetling. We're a family again. That's all that matters." Over Sansa's shoulders he saw copious tears dripping down Catelyn's face too. "I love you," he mouthed at her. 'Blimey, I really mean it,' he realized.

His auburn haired wife smiled through her pain and joy to mouth the words back at him. Then she nudged her horse in closer as well to lean in and join the hug. Her added embrace sent Sansa into further spasms of hysterical release.

After several minutes and gallons more tears, they at last separated. Not Ned looked back. Robb, Arya, Roslin, and Grey Wind still waited nearby. The others having returned with the other two 'guests' into the absolutely silent mass of Northerners and Riverlanders pressed hard against the line of stakes denoting the edge of the siege line. "Do you wish to say hello to Robb and Arya?" he whispered.

She shook her head no.

"Later, then my love," Cat responded.

Sean waved a hand at the rest of his family. They took the clue and withdrew. "Come, now sweetling. Just a short ride and you'll be safely in our tent. You can rest there."

"Safe," his wife agreed.

With a little more prodding, the girl started her mare at a walk. Sean and Cat hovered close. As they approached the sharp pointed stakes, twenty thousand men began to clap and stomp their feet together rhythmically. Words soon joined the beat. "San – Sa. San – Sa. San – Sa. San – Sa. San – Sa! San – Sa! San – Sa! San – Sa! San – Sa!" The beat and the cries grew louder together. "San – Sa! San – Sa! SAN – SA! SAN – SA! SAN – SA! SAN – SA! SAN – SA!"

The actor felt his daughter shiver in fright at the spectacle. Part of him rued how the tumult must be upsetting the child. But the dark part within him thought of the Lannister bastards behind, and all he could think was, 'God, you're fucked!'


	15. Chapter 15

Sean stood on top of the platform the Bolton banners had built to show the Kingslayer off to his adoring, twisted family. A strong salty breeze blew in off Blackwater Bay, swirling the actor's lengthening hair, which gratefully, after two months, was still not as long as the silly wigs and hair extensions he'd worn on set. Not Ned shoved the recalcitrant locks back in place while giving thanks for the wind easing the stench from his nose of King's Landing teeming masses and the twenty five thousand men of his own army camped in the fallow fields outside the city's walls. The strong gusts had also finally dissipated the mist and low clouds that had overhung both of that day's parleys. And as if a portent for the blood that must soon flow, the red comet now hung high and bright in the blue sky above the actor.

"On your knees, traitor," Robb snarled, putting a well-worn leather riding boot to Vary's plump arse and giving a hard shove.

The Eunuch tried to catch himself with his bound hands as he stumbled and fell down on the roughhewn planks. The not man grimaced from both the splinters driven into his fleshy palms and the act of falling jarring the injuries given him the night before. But no curse or cry of pain left not Con's tight pursed lips, controlling his fury to the very end of this, his last performance.

A round of cheers and laughter erupted from below at the Spider's misstep. Over half the army had gathered below to watch the execution; most simply for the sick enjoyment of seeing a head lopped off, no doubt. But word had quickly spread, like any crew worth its salt knowing which of the cast were shagging each other's brains out between scenes, that Varys had plotted in secret for the return of the Targaryens. And many of the lads, or at least their brothers, fathers, or uncles, had fought against the dragons in Robert's Rebellion; the death of this dickless worm, this cuckoo in the nest of dear old King Robert's council, would bring them joy.

Sean sighed. He drew the longsword at his side and checked the sharpness of the blade. For a moment he remembered using the prop Ice to cut off the head of not Gared. 'What was his name?' he wondered, trying to remember the actor who's character had fled from the Others. A look of doubt or distaste or even fear about the existence of real live Others or perhaps the need for him to kill another actual human being, even a ball-less bastard like Varys, must have crossed unbidden on Sean's face.

"Father?" Robb asked hesitantly, one foot now pressed hard on the Eunuch's back.

"Hmmmn? Yes?" he asked, looking up from his hazy reflection in the shiny steel of the blade.

"Are .. you? Would you rather … I?" his not son mumbled.

'Oh,' the actor thought, realizing he wasn't projecting Ned correctly. He knew what to say and he wracked his brain for the line, but for the life of him he couldn't remember it. 'Christ, this is balls up!' He breathed deep, then suddenly realized Robb knew the line. "Do you remember what I told Bran, the day the deserter from the Night's Watch received his … justice?" 'Justice? Jesus!'

Robb nodded, then smiled. "That was the day we found Grey Wind and the other pups."

"Yes. Now tell me what I said."

The young man cleared his throat. "The man who passes the sentence should swing the sword." Robb paused, clearly moved by the words his true father had most like said to him more than once. "If you would take a man's life, you owe it to him to look into his eyes and hear his final words. And if you cannot bear to do that, then perhaps the man does not deserve to die."

Shivers went up and down Sean's body. He'd killed a man. He remembered the sound. The meaty, brutal thunk of his blade biting deep, taking another's life. Could he do it again? In cold blood?

* * *

_The first wave of Westerlanders had been the odds and sods of the hedge knight, freerider, and sellsword type; otherwise known in modern parlance as 'acceptable losses.' They'd stormed on uphill into the teeth of the Northern line, doing their best to ignore the flights of arrows dropping in waves down on their heads until the survivors crashed into a solid wall of spears, pikes, and polearms. The most gigantic fucking man Sean had ever seen, and the moniker 'Mountain' did no justice to the ogre, had led the hopeless, but not pointless charge, from a top a goddamn Clydesdale. The refuse of Tywin Lannister's cavalry fought with spirit, but lacked the mass, even with Gregor Clegane leading them, to punch a hole in the three deep ranks of not Ned's banners. Eventually unhorsed, with arrows peppering his tunic and the chain mail sections of his armor, the Mountain at last retreated, but not before a shield wall of foot could form up just within bow range and blocks of Westerland archers form up on their flanks in the edge of the woods on either side of the wide roadway._

_From next to the tor at the peak of the slope, the actor searched in vain for a group of mountain clansman, knowing not Peter's merry band of murders had been assigned to Clegane's force in the original version of the Battle of the Green Fork. But everyone looked like a bloody savage from his vantage point. His eyes stopped rummaging about the refuse of dead bodies and shrieking injured when the sides of the attackers' shields started hammering against each other, creating a martial beat to steel their nerves enough to advance._

_For the next hour ten thousand Lannister banners on foot stabbed with swords from beneath their shields and with polearms over the top of them against over twelve thousand screaming northerners. The warriors from Houses Umber and Karstark, Houses Manderly and Flint, Houses Bolton and Hornwood ferociously hammered back at their better armored foes from behind the meager safety of the modest fortifications they'd been able to scratch out of the hard scrabbled, flinty soil of the long hill. Several times riders from Lord Medger, Lord Halys, and Lord Robbet came up to not Ned by the Tor, begging permission to unleash their reserves and drive the scoundrel Westerlanders away. Only Roose, that skin flayin bastard Bolton, saw, like Sean did, the block of three thousand horse gathered a half mile away under the burning tree banner of the Marbrands; waiting for the northerners to be slowly ground down by the easily replaceable Westerlands' foot. And then, even more ominously, another half mile back, at the base of the long slope, another three thousand heavy cavalry waiting behind Tywin Lannister himself._

* * *

"_No! No! No!" he screamed, seeing scattered groups of northerners at points along the length of the line start to slip out from behind their modest barricade of sharpened stakes, wanting to give chase to the just rejected lancers of Houses Marbrand, Brax, Swyft, and Crakehall. "Blow the horn, gods damn it! Blow 'HOLD!'" _

"_HUUUUU-AHHHHH!" "HUUUUU-AHHHHH!" "HUUUUU-AHHHHH!" The call of the trumpeters rang._

"_Rally back! Rally back!" not Ned shouted. Standing up in his stirrups and whirling his arm dramatically in what he hoped everyone understood as 'Get back in your fucking place NOW!' Sean was exhausted already, and unlike most of his men, he hadn't even swung his sword yet._

_The ground rumbled with thunder. Purple Unicorn and Manticore, Badger and Sunburst, Seashell and Silver Helm liveried archers broke out from the cover of the woods on either side of the road to again launch swarms of arrows as cover for the charge of the Old Lion's reserve, a gauntleted fist of heavily armored knights sprouting lances aimed straight at the center of not Ned's line._

_The Umber captain Bofor next to him muttered. "Charge our horse, my lord."_

"_What?" Sean yelled. "They'll get rolled over!"_

"_Aye. They must," the hard man agreed. "Ta lads are too tired."_

_Not Ned measured the distance the Old Lion still had to cover and tried to gauge the waning strength of his disorganized lines. 'I'm not actually Richard bloody fuckin' Sharpe,' he whined to himself. He had two hundred horse with him here and there were four groups of fifty spread out along the line. Four hundred against what? Four thousand. They'd be murdered. But maybe, maybe, they could stunt the Lannisters just enough so they wouldn't fall like a hammer blow on his weak lines._

"_You're right, captain. Hornmen! Blow Cavalry Charge!"_

"_TAAAA-DEEEE!" "TAAAA-DEEEE!" "TAAAA-DEEEE!" "TAAAA-DEEEE!"_

_Four narrow holes started to open up in the Northern lines. Warriors yanked up or simply chopped off with their axes any stakes impeding the exit points. Others ran out to quickly drag away any intervening bodies and carcasses._

"_Say hullo to da Old Gods if ya get t'ere furst," Bofors said with a grin. Then he bellowed, "Undow Seg Bweb!" The old tongue words for 'Unchained Giant,' and spurred his horse hard, the other riders quickly flowing in behind him. _

_Sean sat petrified atop his horse. Bowels turning to water. He must charge, he must. These were his men. To remain behind the worst betrayal. His spurs lightly touched the flanks of his black and white spotted war horse. The big beast started moving forward._

"_MY LORD! MY LORD!"_

_The cry came from behind the actor. He pulled on the reins, stopping his mount. He turned his head._

"_Ser Kyle?!" he called, confused; then suddenly scared. The Condon knight had been in charge of the scouts keeping an eye on their rear. They were flanked!_

"_My Lord! Mountain clans! Hundred on garrons! They've slipped around through the woods and are coming up the back of the hill!" Ser Kyle yelled._

'_That's where you went Tyrion! Tricky sod!' Sean looked around. Near a thousand men from the Last Hearth on foot still stood around him as the final reserve. At least they held the high ground. But these men would be needed to plug the holes the Old Lion was about to tear into his army's hide._

"_You!" He pointed at some senior sergeant whose name he couldn't remember. "Stay here with that half!" and he gestured towards the warriors on his right. "Charge any Lannister shite who craps his way through our lines."_

_The grey hair nodded his understanding._

"_The rest of you lot, come with me. We've got some killing to do!" Not Ned tugged out his sword and without a seeming second thought he trotted off down the back side of the hill, leading men, his men, his banners, into a swarm of crazy arsed barbarians._

* * *

"_Lord Stark," he rasped, "the rumors t'wern't a lie. You aren't some mummer passing as the Wolf." The small man chuckled until he spasmed into coughs, hacking up a wad of blood that spewed out on to his mismatched set of armor. "Oh but the sweet irony if you were. My father, the Lion of Casterly Rock, to have been beaten by a man better suited for a farce." Agony rippled across the dwarf's jutting forehead and mismatched eyes; he grabbed at the gaping wound in his side._

"_Let me take you to a master," Sean whispered._

"_Ha," he sniped. "Would think Robert's great friend, great ally, knows the sight of a … a … a mortal wound," Tyrion gasped. "A favor … I beg."_

_The actor nodded his consent._

_A wry smile answered him. "Perhaps three, if not a trouble, my … lord. Ah ah ah ah."_

"_Go on."_

"_There is a woman, a whore, bbbbback in my tent."_

"_Shae," not Ned said, naming her._

_The halfman's blue eye's lid twitched. "Yeeees," he said in evident surprise. "She … she treated me, if only for a while, as a 'man,' worthy of the title."_

"_If I can find her, I will see her safe," Sean promised immediately, not giving Tyrion the time to continue his plea._

"_Th-thank you. Ahahahahah," he moaned._

"_I wish to be buried with a bottle. Always … ugh … quite fond … of it."_

"_It may have to be a wineskin. _

_An unhappy look crossed his face at the possibility of a truly piss poor vintage. "If needs must. So long as its full." He sighed and closed his lids._

"_And?" Sean prodded, a tear forming at the corner of his eyes for the doomed, maltreated, misunderstood Imp._

_Tyrion Lannister's mouth moved, tongue roiling about his mouth, small throaty sounds issuing forth until he spit another wad of dark blood out. "The mercy stroke," he begged in a whisper._

"_No," the actor answered harshly._

"_Please, my lord," the Imp pleaded. "The .. the .. the pain," he whimpered, eyes clamped tight as his body shivered beneath him._

_With a shaking hand not Ned pulled out his dagger. He stared at not Peter. Sean swallowed heavily and thrust the cruel steel into the soft flesh of Tyrion's neck._

* * *

"Do you have any last words, Varys?" not Ned asked, feeling his stomach churn and pitch about.

From his prostrate position, the Spider turned his neck as best he could, lifting hate filled eyes up at the actor, yet still saying nothing.

Sean took a few practice swipes with the longsword, limbering his arm; building his courage. He cleared his throat, a tactic occurring to him. "I've only ever done this with Ice. I can't guarantee the first … or second … or third cut will be clean." Sean rubbed his perpetual stubble thoughtfully. "Were you to reveal one of your secret ways into the city and the Red Keep, I would wait until Ice was returned to me, before …" He let the unfinished statement hang in the air.

The Eunuch only smiled contemptuously in response. "I serve the realm," he whispered with arrogance; goading not Ned on.

Not Ned's blood suddenly boiled. Life meant nothing to this fascist shite. Not his own, not his 'little birds', not any of the thousands dead in wars he'd help start; certainly not Sean's. And now the bastard was egging Sean on to become a killer, as bad as all the rest.

"Smile all you want, stupid sod. Your evil, little games are done. The Old Gods showed me your plans. They are undone," the actor hissed.

Varys eyes narrowed slightly.

"Oh yes, your precious Viserys lies dead on the Dothraki sea, crowned beneath a bucket of molten gold by Khal Drogo."

Varys blinked. He giggled. "Tell me what I don't know already, Lord Stark," he at last spoke in his usual simpering tone.

The tittering stopped as Robb pressed down with his boot.

Sean's hand reached into the sky. "Do you see that? The red comet? Do you know where that omen came from?!"

The Eunuch said nothing. He just breathed heavier from the pressure of Robb on his back.

Not Ned knelt down on one knee, close to the Spider's bruised and abraded face. "I'll tell you. It's your friend Illyrio's wedding present to young Daenerys, the dragon eggs. They hatched. The dragon's tail was born when the last Targaryen birthed them in the flames of Khal Drogo's pyre."

Something shifted in the Eunuch's eyes. Surprise? Greed? Pride? Not Ned couldn't tell.

"Oh, don't worry, you and your fat friend from Pentos have already cut your cocks off … again. The dragons never enter the Game of Thrones. See, you're stupidly sending old Ser Selmy to Daenerys. He'll join her in Qarth. The Old Gods see very far, Varys; very far indeed. And they've shown me your foolish error. You haven't just given the young queen a new Lord Commander for her Queensguard. No, you've given Daenerys a knight who will teach her the true meaning of honor and duty. She sets Slaver's Bay free, and never returns to Westeros." 'I hope.' "Never," he whispered softly.

Not Ned's pronouncements didn't appear to bother the Eunuch in the least, agitating the actor even further. The Spider's hate filled eyes moved about for several seconds, as if calculating the angles on a billiard's shot. A look of satisfaction and acceptance spread across his pudgy face. He stretched out his neck willingly.

Sean refrained from punching the infuriating gobshite and stood up, adjusting his grip on 'justice.'

Varys raised an eye as not Ned raised his blade high. Seeing the sword begin to swing down, the Eunuch whispered, "The young Griff."

Thunk.

Steel sank into the floor of the platform.

Blood burst in brilliant jets of red from severed carotid arteries.

A bald head skittered and then rolled off the edge, falling twenty feet down to the mud and trampled grain stalks below.

"HUZZAH!" roared the audience below, cheering their appreciation at the conclusion of this episode of the Game of Thrones.

Sean swallowed hard on the bitter bile of the last bit of lost innocence that gurgled up into his mouth.


	16. Chapter 16

The oars dipped at a slow, rhythmic pace through the murky waters of the Blackwater Rush, just enough to keep the galley oriented in the middle of the river as the current and outgoing tide did most of the work propelling the craft through the night. No lanterns hung at the stern or bow, with the half moon and the red comet being the only sources of light illuminating the boat, and the forty men within it, between breaks in the clouds. The rowlocks were wrapped in scraps of canvas to muffle any squeaking of the oars. To be discovered on this furtive trip, which had started three miles above King's Landing, past the Tourney Grounds, likely meant a fusillade from the catapults and trebuchets atop the portions of the city wall facing the Rush. And while darkness and the ill training of most of the Gold Cloaks manning the artillery reduced the odds of being struck to near nothing, Sean was nevertheless a strong proponent of the maxim 'better safe than sorry'. So when an eerie screech suddenly arose from the south bank of the river, it quickly drew the actor's jumpy attention.

"Two toms fighting over a queen in heat," the Blackfish whispered unconcernedly.

Not Ned's toothy grin shown through the gloom, as his gooduncle's pronouncement reminded the actor of a Chelsea bar he'd once accidentally walked into. When his nerves settled a bit, he asked softly, "Are you certain our scouts have swept the far shore of Lannister spies?"

Brynden Tully released a low grumble in response. "Certain? No. Not unless you'd like Lord Bolton to put a few of the smallfolks over there under his knife." The contempt the old knight put in his voice was telling; Not Ned was still on probation as far as the wily, but duty bound trout was concerned. "But I've a hundred men keeping their eyes and ears open for any signal betraying us. And it's not as if there are any boats left over there if you're worried we might be attacked that way."

The Blackfish has taken Sean's command from four days earlier; "_Find a few more likely trouts and scout out along the edges of the Blackwater, both the Bay and the Rush. The Targaryens built secret tunnels and entrances to the Red Keep. Kindly discover one, Ser," _and broadly interpreted it to include securing the opposite side of the Blackwater Rush as well. In fact the river galley they were riding in tonight had been one of many confiscated in that very action. His gooduncle had a brain to go along with his balls of steel, and knew how to take initiative.

Unfortunately, the main task assigned the Blackfish had not gone so swimmingly. A night, a day, and most of a night after the Eunuch's unlamented, and duly deserved (couldn't someone else have carried out the sentence?), demise, still no secret entrances into King's Landing had been discovered. Not that Sean would rub salt into the wound of that failure and further strain his presently cool relationship with Ser Brynden. Luckily, however, fate brought a possible turncoat to not Ned, and this one driven not by gold, but by honor, or so he hoped. The truth would be discovered soon enough at the Mud Gate.

* * *

"Ship oars," the steersman called lightly from the rudder.

The locks hardly creaked as the twenty rowers slipped their sculls out and, with only a few loud clunks in the still night, laid the dripping paddles down on the deck. As the galley glided the last few dozen yards amongst the quays jutting out from the burned out remains of the Fishmarket, a handful of men gathered at the bow, preparing to dock the boat.

"Now," hissed the self-designated boson, a graying man whose only job throughout the length of the journey seemed to be periodically offering unsolicited suggestions on proper river craft. 'Actors aren't the only ones full of themselves,' Sean noted. Then three at the bow reached up and grabbed on to the stones of the wharf's retaining wall, absorbing the force of the initial impact. The padding on the galley's starboard side started to bump and scrap not too noisily across the rocks and the ten starboard rowers joined in with strong, callused hands to further cushion the boat's coupling with land. Almost now stopped, two others from the bow, holding ropes, jumped the four feet up to the top of the stone wall and quickly secured the galley to the nearest cleats sunk into the dock.

The hemp cords twanged briefly as they grew taut, completing the stop of the boat's forward momentum. Now at rest, the guards in the middle of the galley propped a wide boarding ladder against the pier and Brynden gestured at the rest of the night's muscle to move off. As each one scuttled out on top the wharf, they seemed to head out in a slightly different direction than the previous fellow; spreading out to ensure no gold cloaks waited in ambush. In less than a minute, an indistinct bird called out. Brynden twirled a finger and half the oarsman left the boat too, warily fingering the knives and cudgels at their side. None of the men, either scouting on land or still on the galley, wore anything other than leather armor and black in order to stay quiet and stealthy.

"My Lord?" a voice finally whispered after ten silent minutes, taking Sean by surprise. The figure crouched low on the pier, a barely visible shadow of gray in the blackness.

"Yes?" he answered.

"No sign of treachery. The agreed signal shines. Follow me."

The actor and the Blackfish crept up the ladder and started following the crafty, silent guard. Sean wove between burned out remains of shacks, the detritus from the ruined harbor front, and the odd bone protruding from the muck; all of it smelling like putrid fish and smoke. A hundred yards from the Mud Gate, the trio stopped in a shallow, rubble filled pit fronted by a few heavily charred, fire eaten beams; all that remained of some merchant's stand and livelihood. Man sized lumps, hopefully his men, crouched about here and there, keeping a watchful eye.

"Look," the Blackfish grunted, pointing through the dark at the left hand side of the gatehouse. Two candles flickered in a single loophole on a level just below the battlement, the warm welcome for an offer of treachery. Sean much preferred the idea of the Lannisters getting stabbed in the back than team not Ned.

Their guide warbled out some bird's agitated, ugly cry.

A few similar sounding calls rose up around them. One even sounded more real, more avian, to Sean's ear than the others.

Surprise or interest must have shown enough on his face, even in the dark, for the Blackfish to comment, "Carrion vultures, squabbling over ripe meat. Something not uncommon during a siege."

One of the two candles went out.

Another round of bird cries squawked out after a minute's exceedingly long wait.

The second light immediately fizzled out.

"Shhh!" someone called.

A low swish buzzed at the edge of not Ned's hearing, followed by a soft thud.

"Someone comes," a voice grunted.

Sean couldn't see a thing until the clouds parted enough and he spotted in the night's shadows a figure climbing a tad clumsily down from the Mud Gate on some sort of a rope ladder.

"Stay here," Ser Brynden ordered, and then he and their guide darted sneakily out, trying to use what cover they could, to reach the base of the flimsy ladder. At last they returned with a gold cloak captain. The reason for his difficulty on the rope now made evident by his readily apparent iron right hand.

The man stepped close enough to make Sean uneasy, but the tall man with eyes so deep set the actor could barely see them, made no untoward moves. He simply stared long and hard through the shadows at not Ned's face and neck, an act Sean immediately recognized, and had long since privately dubbed, as 'Searching for the Stigmata of Lord Eddard.' At last satisfied, the medieval cop remembered himself and addressed not Ned, "My Lord Stark."

'Ah, acceptance. They almost always do, praise be an entire world's uncompromising faith in its pantheon of mysterious and powerful gods.' "Ser Bywater. I don't remember meeting you from my brief time here as Hand. But you were on Pyke, weren't you?" Sean began.

"My lord remembers," the commander of the Mud Gate murmured politely, his oversized, square set jaw bobbing slightly with every syllable.

Sean shook his head no. "Not much, I fear. Many of my memories left me when Ser Ilyn shaved my neck so close," he said with a wry grin. 'Time to play up mystic, reincarnated Ned,' he thought. "From the storming of Pyke I recall towers as little islands leading out into the sea, how hard the ironborn fought, and Greyjoy's black kraken throne; but I couldn't tell you what the castle smelled like. Salt … and blood I imagine." He sighed softly, as if saddened. "Robert knighted you for your bravery there. And here I am, before you, seeking safe passage into my friend's city. Will you grant it?" 'Damn, I cut to the chase too fast,' he scolded himself.

The knight had listened carefully to not Ned's little speech; his ironhand twitching a bit, perhaps subconsciously at the mention of Pyke. Still, he took a long time before finally responding. "The Lions are little loved by the smallfolk. Would the wolves rule be any kinder?"

"I can guarantee that food will flow again into the city. And that the men of the North and the Riverlands will stay disciplined and not pillage or rape. But neither Winterfell nor Riverrun seek to sit upon the Iron Throne," Sean answered.

"That is as rumor has it in the city," Ser Jacelyn confirmed. "Then who?"

"King Stannis," the Blackfish replied. "Robert's eldest brother and true heir."

The gold cloak captain gave a knowing nod, clearly revealing such was the speculation rampant among the besieged. "There are three with last name Baratheon who would give place themselves in precedence before their uncle," he nevertheless countered.

"By their pretty blonde, Lannister looks?" not Ned scoffed. "Show me a single hint of the Stag in Joffrey Waters? By the boy's madness, if Aerys Targaryen hadn't already been dead, I'd have suspect _him_ of sliding between Cersei's thighs thirteen years ago. Did you hear how the bastard had his loyal, honorable Kinsguard torture my daughter?!" he spat.

The troubled look that crossed Ser Jacelyn's stolid face revealed that news wasn't limited to just the Red Keep.

Thoughts of broken Sansa huddled pitifully in his tent, slipping the last two days between hysterical and catatonic, made Sean want to go spare. He breathed deep, trying to collect himself. "Your pardon, Ser." He cleared his throat before continuing. "It was my knowledge of his true parentage that drove the Lannisters to arrest me. The morning after dear Robert's death, as his acknowledged Regent, I intended to proclaim Stannis ascension to the Iron Throne in front of the royal court … that is until Littlefinger's gold and Janos Slynt's greed intervened on behalf of the Lions. In the end, before Baelor's Sept, they sought to silence me." 'Well it didn't go down quite like that for old Ned, but why confuse things by bringing up some niggling details.' "But as you see, I refused to stay silent. 'Nice line, mate,' he congratulated himself.

The gold cloak captain's remained silent and thoughtful, the only emotion showing, and that a cold one, when Sean mentioned Slynt, the Commander of the City Watch. "Stannis will be little loved," the knight finally commented.

"No, he won't," the actor agreed. 'I won't piss on your leg and call it rain; at least not for the teeth grinder.' "But rest assured, were Stannis under siege, he would suffer and starve alongside his people. Can the same be said of the Lannisters or Lord Renly?" 'Damn, shouldn't have mentioned that bender,' Sean winced inside.

Jacelyn Bywater grunt indicated the negative.

"And Stannis, while strict, will rule with justice and wisdom," not Ned continued.

This last drew a snort of derision. "Do not be so certain, my Lord. Morality is not always the same as wisdom. While Master of Laws, King Stannis tried to forbid whores from spreading their … wares." The knight whistled a tone of wonderment and continued. "How's the Watch to enforce _that_?"

Now it was time for Sean to look thoughtful. 'At least he referred to Stannis as King,' passed through part of the actor's brain. While the other half wondered, 'What sort of bloody fool outlaws quim.' Not Ned sighed. "I will present his Grace with a few strongly phrased … suggestions."

"Or he can damn well fight Renly alone," the Blackfish muttered, obviously dismayed by Stannis' act of priggish stupidity.

The actor grimaced, bothered that the other competitor for the Iron Throne was mentioned again. Perhaps Bywater would find Renly a more palatable King and not open the gate to them after all. Thankfully his worry quickly proved needless.

"So where is the King?" the gold cloak captain inquired.

"His fleet has already sailed from Dragonstone." 'Or at least he damn well better have,' Sean thought darkly. 'There's lots to do and little time to do it in!' "His army shall join mine within a week."

"And you'll hand him the Iron Throne?"

"No. With your assistance, I'll happily present him with King's Landing, but he must take the Red Keep and the Iron Throne himself. Right of conquest will mean as much for his claim to Kingship as being Robert's eldest brother. Much as I crave vengeance on Joffrey, it will be better for the realm if King Stannis passes _that_ judgment."

"Clever," Ser Jacelyn murmured with a tone of approval and then moved business like on to the gritty details encompassed in gift wrapping an entire city.

* * *

"I'm soaked," Robb complained to not Ned; displeased at the brief, just ended, downpour that had interrupted the mere steady drizzle of the last six hours. The cover provided by bad weather had been the prerequisite for opening the Mud Gate to the hopefully not so forelorn hope of warriors riding down a hodgepodge of craft on the Blackwater. That, and Bywater's treachery not being double crossed by one of his men for Lannister gold.

Water had slid between the rings of the actor's chainmail and dripped down inside the collar too, turning his tunic and smallclothes into a giant sodden mess. The nasal guard of his open faced helm had, as expected, proved useless at keeping the rain out of his eyes. The chill 10C temps didn't make the situation any more comfortable either. But the lad from Yorkshire stoically shrugged inside; miserable as it was, there wasn't a thing he could do about it. "All the better then should they start dropping wildfire on us," he responded with fake cheer. Sean suspected burning to death would be far worse than say drowning, but he much preferred the idea of dying comfortably in bed … at a very, very old age. 'Ha! As if Westeros will let me, you bastard, George.'

Next to his not son, but strategically as always on the side away from not Ned, stood Grey Wind. The rain wicked off his thick coat and steam left his snout with every breath of nippy air. The weather didn't appear to bother the direwolf in the least. Neither did the rocking of the boat, as it heaved through the wind churned, rain pelted wave tops of the river. Grey Wind didn't appear impressed with the actor's gallows humor. But the beast did perk up when the galley's rudder got thrown over and turned them in towards shore; one of the thirty odd mismatched boats working the river in order to unload near five hundred men beneath the city's walls. Then, before the galley could kiss the wharf, Grey Wind bounded up to the bow, knocking a few men over on their arses and disrupting several rowers hauling in their sculls, and leapt through the late night gloom to land silent as death on the retaining wall.

"Grey Wind," Robb hissed in disapproval.

"Leave him be, nephew," the Blackfish commented through the darkness. "If there's trickery a foot, he'll smell it out soon enough."

Sean agreed. The books indicated the beast, in fact all the direwolves, had a sort of sixth sense for danger and treachery. Even if the overgrown mutt never warmed to the actor, he never intended to let the beast or one of his siblings get too far from him; ever! 'Westeros sucks.'

Crack. Crack. Crack.

Boats began abutting the quays. Ladders were planted. Men in chain and leather began to scramble out.

The butterflies in Sean's stomach churned faster as he climbed up and joined the ranks of killers, murderers, and savages trying unsuccessfully to form up in five tight squares. A few sergeants barked softly at their squads, trying to make sure they were grouped with the right banner; an almost impossible task in a dual night and water borne operation. 'Well no plan survives the first contact with the enemy, or the shore,' the actor thought sarcastically.

The uneven blocks of men started to shuffle their feet, as if uncertain how to proceed. An elbow nudged him none too gently in the side. Sean turned and saw Brynden staring back at him. 'Oh.' "To the gate," he called out in a low, clear voice; "Wolves first, Twins second, Mermen third, Eagle fourth, Blue Eyes fifth." And with that command, not Ned started marching forward toward the protrusion in the tall city wall formed by the towering gatehouse around the Mud Gate.

Nearing the wide, thick doors, his hundred or so wolves slowed down and not Ned continued on alone. He drew his longsword and pounded the pommel against a black band of reinforcing iron on the gate. Thud. Thud. Thud. The rain muffled the clashing some, but it still sounded impossibly loud to Sean.

"Who comes?" a voice called down from above.

"Justice," the actor cried back.

"Who's justice?"

"The King's!"

A score of men high up on the battlements or behind arrowslits chorused back, "Stannis."

Sean swallowed heavily. The part of him that remembered cell phones and email couldn't believe grown men would use such childish sounding phrases as the preface for murder and mayhem. Most of him was simply relieved nothing, yet, had gone cock up.

Creeeeeeeeak!

Not Ned practically jumped out of his skin as one half the gate fought inertia, rust, and several tons of weight to nudge five feet open. He felt certain they'd sent a clarion cry of alarm all the way past the Red Keep and out into Blackwater Bay.

A light flickered and Jacelyn Bywater stepped through the gap into the wet night carrying a hooded lantern. Tiny pricks of bright color danced through narrow slits revealing the knight no longer wore a gold cloak. Instead, across his shoulders rested a grey cape, with the hint of a wolf embroidered near one shoulder. "I've two squads ready to take your men through the city," he announced without preamble or pretense for quiet.

Sean waived an arm and his ears immediately picked up the sound of his wolves moving forward. He gestured at Ser Jacelyn to turn back through the gate and followed after the iron hand man. "What about the whores?" he stage whispered.

The question most have brought memories of the conversation two nights before and the knight smiled. "Hamstrung," was all he answered, knowing full well the question pertained to the three largest of King's Landing's catapults, located not too far past the gate in Fishmonger's Square.

"Good," Not Ned exhaled. He quickly spotted two separate clumps of the captain's men, a dozen no longer gold cloaks each. "Which is for the King's Gate and which for the Gate of the Gods?"

Ser Jacelyn pointed towards the group further back into Fishmonger's Square and to the north. "The Gods," he uttered.

At that moment Sean felt the direwolf bound past him. Many of the gathered gold cloaks gasped in surprise and fear. "Grey Wind, heel," he called. The huge beast let loose a brief whimpered as it pulled into a sit, instead of coming back to heel by the actor. 'Damn dog.'

Then the monster started nonchalantly scratching an itch with a hind paw. "Ser Brynden? Robb?" he called.

"Here, father."

"Here, Lord Stark."

"Take the Wolves, Twins, and Mermen as soon as they're all through with those of Ser Jacelyn's men." Not Ned pointed at the group the knight had indicated. "They'll take you to the Gate of the God's. You've the furthest to go. Understand?"

Both his not son and not uncle nodded. Of course they understood, the Blackfish had come up with the two pronged plan. Sean, nervous enough to piss his pants, wished to go over it again, but knew it pointless. He must become Ned; cool, calm, and deadly. "Old Gods watch over you," he called, and then stepped back, making sure he didn't block the steady stream of killers slipping in through the cracked open gate.

Soon enough the designated banners were gathered together and started heading across the square towards Muddy Way and the twisting, turning alleys in the heart of the city. Grey Wind of course led the way. And as the last two hundred Mallister and Flint troops formed up near Sean, he heard the first distant cries of surprise echo out as some late night reveler or early morning worker encountered a direwolf and a bevy of hard charging fighters.

"Shall you lead, my lord," Ser Jacelyn asked courteously.

"You know the way, Ser," not Ned responded graciously and swept his hand to the left, the southwest.

A feral grin brightened the turncoat captain's face and he snapped his fingers. A dozen grey cloaks holding spears immediately started marching towards the entrance of River Row and the shortest way to the King's Gate.

Sean looked sternly at the Eagles and Blue Eyes around him. "Time to crack some heads, lads," he announced.

* * *

"Who goes there?!" an agitated voice shouted out through the drizzle and darkness.

"Bugger," Sean snarled. The King's Gate lay a mere fifty yards away, but between the front of not Ned's force and the unsuspecting gatehouse, some stupidly, over-enterprising patrol of gold cloaks had apparently decided to chance the rain and make rounds.

"Charge!" Ser Jacelyn bellowed.

Instantly the closest ranks lowered spears or yanked out swords and charged the impediment to their destination. The impediment, at least initially, didn't prove to be much. The thunder of feet and screaming of battle cries startled the ten or so hapless members of the watch until they recovered their wits and turned tail back to the gatehouse. The last of the fleeing shits slid in through the closing a second before the crowd of northmen and riverlanders arrived.

"Don't let them drop the bar in place," some clever dick yelled.

The first wave of men threw themselves at the door and heaved, inching the barrier open. A spear and a sword got shoved into the gap. A good thing too, since more weight got thrown against the entrance from the inside, pushing it almost shut except for the obstructions.

"Push!" men screamed.

The hinges squeaked as the door peeked open again, but this time a spear or three came lancing outward. A man grunted. And then a second gave a mortal shriek and pitched forward into the space. A shout of triumph rose, the lads knowing no way could the gold cloaks could secure the door against them.

Taaaa-Dooooo. Taaaa-Dooooooo.

The alarm horn peeled out from the King's Gate, drowning out the now feeble sounding cries of victory and letting all of the city know they were under attack.

From the middle of the crowd, Sean at last saw the door pushed open far enough that dangerous men wielding swords could now force their way into the gatehouse.

"Move!" men shouted. "Find the winch!" "Raise the portcullis!" "Open the gate!" they bellowed and cried.

Slowly, like sand dripping through an hour glass, the riled warriors started pushing the defenders within further and further back; making room for their compatriots to follow in behind and add to the butchery.

"Piss," a man next to Sean hissed painfully. The actor looked over; an arrow stuck through the meaty part of the man's arm.

"Bows!" the cry went up. And those still on the outside of the gatehouse surged forward even more to avoid the threat of shafts lashing down from atop the outer wall. Sean shoved ahead as hard as any of them, looking for both relief and an outlet to discharge the shame at the cowardice he felt.

Not Ned squeezed through the doorway, stepping on and over bodies already bled out from ghastly slashes and deep punctures. Longsword in hand he headed for the nearest egress from the guard's room, looking in his sudden spiral of madness to add to the death about him.

Sean ran down a hall. All the doors already kicked open. He snatched a sight of a gold cloak, begging for mercy, getting stabbed in the chest.

"Stairs?!" a voice shouted.

"Back here," another behind the actor shouted.

Sean snapped his head around in surprise. He'd run past the doorway to the stairs without even noticing it. He turned and followed the lads. His breath came in heaving gasps as he tried to rush up the stairs; eager to push past his mates and also careful to not trip and get trampled.

"Do ya hears?! Do ya hears?!" a man laughed with excitement.

Woosh. Creeeeaak. Woosh. Creeeeaak. Woosh. Creeeeaak.

A resounding cheer shook the stones of the gatehouse. Somewhere, up, down, Sean hadn't a clue, his men had found the winches and were opening the gate. He prayed that Lords Glover and Bracken were paying attention and had two thousand men ready to swarm in from their staging areas back in the Tourney Grounds.

"AAAH!" a crazed man screamed, hurtling down the stairs. The gold cloak smashed into a distracted Flint man at arms, knocking him down and into several of his mates. The attacker kept coming, his sword flashed, blood sprayed from a loped off forearm. A Mallister tried to grab the gold cloak around the waste, but a pommel to the back of his neck dropped him like an ox in a slaughter house.

The killer's blade came close, close, close. 'Shit! He's aiming at me,' flashed through Sean's mind. He snatched his head and chest back. The blade scrapped across his chainmail. The actor might have seen sparks, but wasn't sure. He raised his arm. It all seemed so slow.

"Oooof!" The breath exploded out of the gold cloak. He slumped, staggering down onto Sean. The man felt incredibly heavy, yet also ridiculously light. Not Ned shifted his back foot for a better purchase and then twisted his weight, shedding the body trying to trap him. The dying man, with blood already frothing at his lips, fell, fell, fell.

Clank.

The gold cloak hit the stairs.

Snarls of approval met his foes defeat. He looked at the sword in front of him, swathed in blood. "Let's go kill some more of the fuckers!" he roared.

The snarls turned into outright cheers.

'Gods I feel alive!'


	17. Chapter 17

Hardly any smoke hovered over the plethora of banners waving in the light breeze passing through the harbor, though the scent of soot lay heavy in the air. The senior representatives of all the Noble and Masterly Houses of the Riverlands and the North present in King's Landing stood proudly beneath their proud blazons; arrayed in whatever clean finery they could discover in the bottom of their baggage or hastily purchase from the more intrepid clothing merchants who'd dare open their stores. The last two days had been a whirlwind for the lords; first fighting to keep the city from burning down and then struggling to keep both the army and the population from exploding in riots, looting, rape, and murder.

The King's Gate had fallen easily enough, but not before its defenders could sound the alarm. At the Lion's gate, the next entrance down from King's, nervous gold cloaks, fearing a night attack, had shot wildfire out of their catapults in hopes of creating enough light to see what turned out to be a non-existent assault of their area. Tragically, some fool had mishandled one of the containers of the volatile substance and the resulting blaze had not only left the gate a smoldering ruin but destroyed ten blocks of buildings, houses, and slums around it. Not Ned had led most of the two thousand men brought in through the King's Gate by Lords Jonos and Galbart in tearing down any structure in the path of the flames to make a fire break. Luckily the gold cloaks lacked the numbers, leadership, and gumption, most like terrified of the eerie, green hued flame, to launch a counterattack against the distracted invaders.

Nearly a thousand men had made it through the Gate of the Gods before the situation went balls up in a great ball of wildfire. Sean learned from Robb that his trust in Grey Wind's uncanny instincts was proved correct since the direwolf wound up leading his partner and a score of men through a bewildering series of twists and turns, ultimately taking them through underground storerooms before emerging aboveground, to escape the inferno. And the Blackfish, immediately sensing the impending disaster, promptly took charge leveling buildings and shops to remove fuel from the threatening flames. Again the gold cloaks proved pleasingly feckless, and when approached in the early morning hours by modest sized armed contingents at the Dragon and Old Gates, swiftly surrendered at the first whiff of amnesty.

Fleabottom and most of the other slums erupted at hint of the end of authority; running amok, abusing each other and quickly moving out to spread the mayhem into wealthier neighborhoods. By noon a contingent of Winterfell and Riverrun banners were encamped on Aegon's Hill keeping a wary eye on the Red Keep, while most of the Northern and Riverland warriors were beating back the rioters. More buildings burned as some of the dispossessed turned arsonists, but luckily these blazes lacked the insidious presence of wildfire and were mostly contained easily enough. To Sean's chagrin not all of his army maintained discipline and two score of the worst murderers and rapists were reduced in height by the length of a head. He did not wish himself or his allies to be tarred with the same shit stained brush that followed the Lannisters after their sack of King's Landing during Robert's Rebellion.

Things were mostly calm in the city when sails were spied off in the distance of the bay. Sean quickly scribbled a letter and sent the more gregarious of the walrus like Manderly brothers, Ser Wendel, on the largest of the available river galleys to deliver it. And now a dozen great war galleys and a score of smaller vessels were sweeping up the Blackwater Rush, skirting as close to the far shore as the water depth would allow in order to avoid any wayward boulders launched from the besieged Red Keep. Apparently satisfied that no Lannister trickery lay in wait, the signal was raised by the scout ships and now the mighty Fury rowed against the tide. Stannis had at last arrived from Dragonstone and Sean gazed anxiously at the Baratheon flagship looking for any clue as to what kind of King he might be.

Only the main sail flew on Fury, the galley relying primarily on its triple bank of oars to negotiate the narrowing channel into the river. The sight of the crowned stag of Stannis' house on the wide spread of canvas did little to ease the actor's disquiet; an entire sail was harder to change than a mere pennant and the position of the banner floating over the flagship frustrated all efforts to discern its configuration. At last the wind shifted and instead of flapping to the east, south-east, the pennant atop the main mast fluttered due north. "Ahhhh," he sighed with evident pleasure.

"What is it, goodbrother?" Edmure asked light heartedly, standing, as heir to Riverrun and thus the second highest ranking lord present, directly next to not Ned in the middle of the double row of lords, lordlings, and knights arranged on the wharf. "You sound as if you've just sipped a particularly fine red. Pray tell, do you have enough to share?" he japed.

The significance that a crowned stag, and only a crowned stag, lay woven in the pennant was lost on the collection of Northern and Riverland nobles. No sign of flames or a burning heart surrounded and perverted the traditional emblem of the Storm Kings. Perhaps another one of Sean's bets had paid off. When he'd nixed the misguided 'King of the North' scheme and thrown his not inconsiderable, reincarnated Stark-like weight behind Stannis' candidacy, he'd purposefully failed to mention that his 'visions' included the strong possibility that the new King would cast off his lip service devotion to the Seven. This throw of the dice, like most of his plan for saving Westeros, had depended on beating the Lannisters quickly, thus upsetting the machinations of all the other nasty players in the Game of Thrones. His northmen wouldn't have cared a scraggily mouse arse if the man worshiped a steaming pile of dung, so long as he fought like the devil and left them alone in their frigid fastness. But the piety and support of most Riverlanders would have been fatally wounded by such a betrayal. If luck held, and Stannis hadn't yet had himself proclaimed Azor Ahai by the Red Woman, then the actor would have one less chasm to try and diplomatically bridge between the King and his powerful, yet still wary, Seven worshiping subjects.

"No, the change in breeze simply felt refreshing after swallowing all this soot," he lamely explained.

"So long as it's blowing in the damned Lion's maw, I'm alright with it," the Greatjon called from his position in the line a few down from not Ned.

At the mention of the Lannisters and the Red Keep, Ser Brynden's nagging voice announced, "We should tell him." As Edmure's heir, he stood directly behind his nephew; and the honor bound Blackfish wouldn't let the subject drop.

"No," Roose Bolton disagreed so softly he could barely be heard from his position on the other side of Sean from Edmure; placed there unknowingly in accordance with the adage of 'keep your friends close and your enemies closer.' With no heir but a psychopathic bastard in need of killing back at the Dreadfort, a captain known as Steelshanks attended the Leech Lord as his second. "Lord Stark is wise. Let our liege judge whether this King is worthy of winning the throne for himself or … not."

"It lacks honor," Ser Brynden complained fiercely.

"It has … flexibility," Ser Stevron retorted agreeably, from his position beside Edmure; granted him because his father had joined the North's crusade first and because the adage that applied to the Boltons applied equally as well to the Freys. Ser Stevron's portly and even fatter headed son Ryman stood dimwittedly and mute behind his father.

"Bah," the Blackfish snorted with scorn.

"Our Lord deserves our forbearance," Halys Hornwood said respectfully. "These are ill times," he proclaimed. And didn't that lord know it, his only child and heir, Daryn, had fallen in the Whispering Woods to the sword of the Kingslayer. And now the captain of his castle's guard, and not his son, attended him. "And few have been his missteps in guiding us to such great victories. Lord Stark has well-earned my faith in him."

A general murmur of agreement arose from the gathered lords and their deputies. Grey Wind, beside Robb, right behind, Sean even gave a brief yip that sounded like concurrence. From what the actor could tell, Rickard Karstark, who still held a grudge at Jaime Lannister's exchange, didn't join in to express a positive sentiment. And who could blame Brynden's burst of petulance. Just that morning his scouts had at last found a secret passage into the Red Keep and now not Ned wanted to hold off using it. The actor caught Lord Halys' eye and shared an appreciative smile at the words from the easy going man without an heir. Sean knew the man had a bastard son fostering with the Glovers, but he suspected a better solution might lay with the absent green sentinel tree banner of House Tallhart. Lord Helman, who was still babysitting Walder Frey in the Twins, had a brother married to Halys' sister; and that couple had a pair of sons. 'Easier to go that route than ask stiff necked Stannis to legitimize a bastard,' he thought. 'Of course some damned ignorant arse will complain that unfairly elevates the Tallharts from a masterly house to a noble one. Piss on all stupid, prickly feudal privileges,' he grumbled.

The next half hour, as the Fury pulled its way upstream and docked at the wharf, Sean participated lightly in the chatter of his lords while reserving most of his brain power for figuring how best to handle the coming storm named Stannis.

* * *

The Fury barely fit alongside the hastily repaired pier jutting out from the wharf into the Backwater Rush. Sailors nimbly hopped down to join the carefully selected group of dockworkers in securing the huge warship. As a gang plank was manhandled up to a gap amid ship in the superstructure, not Ned craned his neck around trying to see who would exit along with the tall, yet lean balding figure waiting with apparent ill patience. He easily spotted the bulky form of Ser Wendel along with a few nondescript knights and squires. 'Please no red, please no red, please no red,' Sean chanted to himself.

Down the man purposefully strode, reaching the pier and pivoting before stridently marching toward the gathered flower of his not yet complete kingdom. Sean barely noted the blue eyes, strong jaw beneath a tight beard, and tight, almost gaunt face, while judging the X to be a good fifteen centimeters taller than his own height. Such a vast sense of relief passed through him he almost shuddered, no one wearing red, no woman at all, had followed the new king off the Fury. He took a deep breath, his new monarch almost on top of him. 'Remember mate, just because he's an ignorant savage, don't mean he lacks a brain.'

"Hail Stannis!" he shouted.

The nobles responded on cue. "Hail Stannis!" they thundered in unison.

As one they drew swords.

Surprise danced across that taciturn face.

The Riverlanders and Northerners all knelt together on one knee.

"The King! The King!" the first row cried.

"Yours is the fury!" the rest chanted.

Sean thought that for just an instant a whisper of a smile started to form on those pale, thin lips at the bit of showmanship not Ned had convinced, with only a modicum of trouble, his fellow lords to perform. Instead the man nodded briefly, as if acknowledging he'd only received his just due.

"Arise good lords," Stannis announced in a bass voice rumbling with a hint of thunder and crashing rocks. "Sheath your swords, which you've wielded so justly on my behalf against the usurper Lannisters."

The words, while not effusive, were gracious enough. As not Ned stood up he noted sufficient satisfaction at the King's words on the faces of those lords he spied. "How may we serve you, your Grace?"

"I would proclaim my arrival to the rebels inside my keep, Lord Stark," he proclaimed.

"You desire a parley, your Grace?" Edmure asked.

"If the she-lion, her brother lover, and their abomination dare face my fury, Ser," Stannis answered in a tone full of heat and contempt.

Sean wasn't sure if there was an extra emphasis, along with a quick glare at not Ned, during the flinty man's reference to the Kingslayer. The message Ser Wendel delivered to Stannis had amongst its paragraphs included a summary of the exchange for Sansa and the conclusion of Littlefinger's and Vary's participation on the Small Council.

"And afterwards," the King continued with moderate condescension, "I would meet with you, my lords, and hear your words. There is much still to learn before I make my plans; the Kingdom yet trembles from the throws of rebellion."

'You have no idea,' Sean thought snidely, before replying politely. "Shall we show you the way, your Grace?"

"I have lived here more years than you, Lord Stark," Stannis said with a scowl. "I know the way to my keep."

Robb, behind not Ned, stifled a gasp at the insult to his not father.

'Oh you're a cheeky bugger,' the actor thought wryly, plastering a civil smile on his phiz.

As if unaware or unconcerned about the slight, the King didn't even hesitate as he kept on talking. "We'll wait for my chief Dragonstone banners to dock, so they may accompany me as well. Lords Celtigar, Sunglass, and Velaryon have dutifully claimed my right to the Iron Throne from the beginning."

The hint was unmistakable, Stannis still had a grumkin lodged up his stoney arse about the 'King in the North' nonsense. When the King turned away from not Ned and Edmure to start greeting the other lords, the actor noticed that one of the two squires now standing patiently behind the King wore a coat of arms with a white onion on the sail of a black ship. 'And Ser Davos too, I hope. You supposedly listen to his hard truths. And have I got some brutally hard, and completely unbelievable, ones to tell you about.'


	18. Chapter 18

Not Ned waited a long hour at the wharf for Stannis to feel sufficiently secure in the number of 'loyal' banners about him before the whole party departed for the city. During the delay the tight faced, thin lipped man tried his best to individually greet each lord and exchange simple courtesies with them, but only proved how limited his skills at small talk were; and, for those lords who'd been at Riverrun after the Lannister siege had been broken how vast his reservoir of hard feeling. The only lord whom he truly seemed to get along with, which Sean found quite unsettling, was Roose Bolton. Perhaps, the actor hoped, that was only because Stannis couldn't hear any of the whispering bastards answers and simply assumed they were agreements to whatever insights or pleasantries the King offered up.

At last the 'major' lords sworn to Dragonstone began to arrive. First, wrinkled old Ardrian Celtigar docked and dismounted from his ornate galley Red Claw. Sean couldn't tell if the prune's white hair came solely from age or a bit of the Targaryen blood that Tytos Blackwood's knowledgeable, freakishly tall son Hos had told him one night in prepping the actor on which lords would most likely accompany Stannis. The second of significance to disembark was Guncer Sunglass, proclaiming his House's devotion to the Seven through the same numbered gold stars emblazoned on its coat of arms. The last lord of consequence, the handsome, Targaryen blond haired Monford Velaryon, arrived at the wharf on the Pride of Driftmark. When Stannis abruptly starting marching to the Mud Gate, the actor was disappointed to see the black ship and onion emblazoned sail of Davos Seaworth's galley still rowing hard as it entered the tidal estuary of the Blackwater Rush. 'We need all the sane men this great oaf will listen to,' he thought.

Stannis disdained the offer of a horse and paid no heed to the older lords who lacked the stamina to keep up with the King's brisk pace. His own Lord Celtigar suffered the worse and by the time the party came to the end of the Hook at the foot of Aegon's Hill, the old man could no longer be seen. Upward Stannis marched, straight into the square fronting the huge bronze gates in the curtain wall, passing through the thin lines of House Vance men-at-arms assigned that day to keep watch on the keep. When the determined man showed no sign of slowing down, many shouted warnings of archers hiding behind the parapet above, which he ignored. None of the lords hesitated and they all followed their new King out into bow range. Some clever thinking green dragon and watchtower captain from Atranta snatched up a white flag and ran in front of Stannis.

At last the King stopped and held out a hand. A squire in House Seaworth livery immediately reached into a leather pouch, extracted a rolled up parchment, and handed it to Stannis. His non Seaworth squire then gestured at a pair of men at arms who pulled long trumpets out of what Sean had thought were great sword scabbards on their backs.

Dadadeeeee! Dadadeeeee! Dadadeeeee!

Helmeted heads slowly started to bob up and appear in the embrasures of the battlements. A large figure in white boldly stepped out of one of the two gatehouses and stood smack dab in the middle above the gates.

"We'll take any wine merchants, but mummers and fools only enter through the postern!" the man shouted.

"Clegane," Stannis muttered darkly.

"Where's your motley, Stannis?! I need a good laugh! Moonboy needs a new assistant!"

The red cloaks and those gold cloaks still loyal to the Lannisters guffawed and cheered at the Hound's bravado.

"Here my words!" the crowned Stag bellowed. "Here my words!" To no effect.

Both squires quickly gestured and the pair of trumpeters blew again.

Dadadeeeee! Dadadeeeee! Dadadeeeee! Dadadeeeee!

The trumpets did what Stannis' harrumphing could not. He used the brief silence to read his edict. _"All men know me for the true born son of Steffon Baratheon, Lord of Storm's End, by his lady wife Cassana of House Estermont. I declare upon the honor of my House that my brother Robert, our late king, left no trueborn issue of his body, the boy Joffrey, the boy Tommen, and the girl Myrcella being abominations born of incest between Cersei Lannister and her brother Ser Jaime the Kingslayer. By right of birth and blood, I do this day lay claim to the Iron Throne of the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros. Let all true men declare their loyalty. Done under the sign and seal of Stannis of House Baratheon, the First of his Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, and Lord of the Seven Kingdoms."_

The non Seaworth squire now reached into a large leather pouch attached to his belt and pulled out a crown of red gold with points fashioned in the shapes of flames.

"Damn!" Sean barked, causing those around him to jerk about and snap glances at him. His stomach dropped and his eyes darted about, looking for any sign of _HER_, Melisandre.

Stannis, having turned away from the keep to face his banners, accepted the Rhollor influenced circlet and placed it on his bald dome.

"Hail Stannis!" Sean suddenly shouted, trying a bit of improv at Stannis' unexpected self-coronation. "Hail Stannis!" he kept yelling; turning his head about as if to encourage others to join in, all the while warily searching for the deadly, red bitch.

In a ragged wave, many of the lords who'd participated earlier in not Ned's little production down at the docks caught a clue and added in their cries of "Hail Stannis!" The men of Houses Vance, both from Wayfairer's Rest and Altrant, bless them, started to join in too.

Tempted as he was, Sean this time did not draw his sword, fearing it would be taken as a violation of the impromptu parley. He did though drop to one knee and roared "The King! The King!"

The others followed his cue and fell to a knee as well while changing their chant. Only a few voices tried to repeat their lines from the earlier show, and the calls of "Yours is the fury!" were mostly drowned out by the thunderous cries of "The King! The King!"

A look almost akin to pleasure slipped over the rigid son of a bitch. The number of times men cheered Stannis could probably be counted on the prickly fingers of his cold hand. With a wrench, no doubt distrustful at the unexpected acclamation, his lips pinched and a slightly dyspeptic look replaced any evidence of joy. The King at least raised his hands in an awkward gesture of acknowledgement.

'Well, no septon crowned him, but at least no red priestess either.' Sean sighed, realizing things could have gone worse.

When the tumult began to peter out, the flinty man spun back around to again address the defenders atop the pale, rust colored stone wall. "Men of the Red Keep, you have one day to amend your ways and proclaim me your King. Those who do so, I will pardon them their treason. You will be free to enter my service or return unmolested to your homes. If you force me to take the fortress by storm, you may expect no mercy. Any who survive the assault will be hanged as traitors."

"You better go fuck yourself Stannis, cause no one else wants to touch your cold cock," the Hound shot back.

And with one last scowl, the crowned stag abruptly turned about and exited stage left.

* * *

In the disorganized jumble that followed the King, Edmure took the lead in first reaching Stannis and then guiding him part way down Aegon's Hill to the alliance's headquarters; an establishment acquired from the estate of Lord Baelish. In fact many, if not most, of the buildings now housing the Northern and Riverland host belonged to or had been rented out by Littlefinger. The men, in what little spare time allotted them so far, enjoyed the cut rate prices they received for not throwing the whores out onto the street. However this particular edifice had housed a set of stores providing fine clothing, delicately blown glass, silver artisans, and other high end knickknacks desired by the nobility and the rich ensconced near the Iron Throne. Fortunately for the King's reputed temperament, no hint of a brothel or even high class courtesans permeated the place. The gaggle of lordlings and senior knights gathered in a central courtyard, many trying to garner the attention of the crowned stag, until dinner was served; at which point men literally pushed and punched one another to gain entrance to the room where Stannis was taken to dine.

The meal was modest; a barley stew with leeks, turnips, potatoes, and few pieces of stringy beef in each bowl. The serving wenches went around pouring a very pale, very thin ale in everyone's tankards, which finally elicited a strong comment from pretty Lord Monford, "Ugh, enough women, are you trying to kill me," he swore, waiving off the woman trying to refill his mug. "This slop isn't fit for my hunting dogs, your Grace. They'd sooner drink water than this piss."

"So would I, Lord Velaryon," Stannis proclaimed, but meaning it for another reason, though few in the room knew it.

"Our pardon, your Grace, my lords," Lord Bolton murmured. "With the Lannisters having laid waste to the smallfolk of the Trident, our own advance through the Crownlands, your own ships' blockade of the bay, and Lord Renly's cutting off the supply of food stuffs from the Stormlands and the Reach; there is barely enough to go around and stop the city from rioting on empty bellies."

A look of disdain spread across the Lord of Driftmark's face that concerns over smallfolk would keep him from an enjoyable meal.

Stannis, however, cleared his throat. "It is dutifully done that we not enjoy bounty when the realm suffers," he said with not quite begrudging approval. "How soon before the Riverlands may tithe a portion of its abundance to King's Landing, Lord Edmure?"

Catelyn's brother cleared his throat. "There are still remnants of the Old Lion's army marching across my lands, heading back to Casterly Rock. And, ah, many bandits seem to have taken root as well. One band of outlaws even claims to be fighting for King Robert, and where they can they attack my men-at-arms who visit villages to collect the harvest payment."

"We've sent patrols out on the Gold Road and the Rosby Road, your Grace," Ser Brynden interjected. "Much of the Crownlands has yet been untouched by war. With you now present and crowned in King's Landing we hope the lordlings from here to Duskendale and out to the Westerlands will open their store houses and start sending grain again by cart and wagon."

"The City's fishing fleet and sea borne merchants fled at our approach, your Grace," Robb added. "Did you met them on your journey here? Perhaps they can be convinced to return to commerce?"

Lord Celtigar unleashed a smug cackle, "We picked up many a pathetic sea urchin as we sailed. They are a pleasant addition to our fleet."

Righteous anger flashed across the crowned stag's deep set dark blue eyes. "Any ship with legal ownership certificates issued through the Free Cities will be set free, they are not tainted by rebellion and thus not forfeit," he declared sternly.

Clearly a situation already existed between the King and his Dragonstone banners, all seagoing fiefdoms, over the condemnation and awarding of a pretty penny in ship prizes.

"Evil times the Lannisters' vile treachery has brought upon the realm," Lord Sunglass exclaimed. "And what of Lord Renly? Seeking to overthrow the will of the Seven by placing the younger brother over the older," he tsked. "The boy has ensorcelled the Tyrells with his charms. Will the Redwyne's fleet sail to his aid as well?"

"Lord Paxter's sons are held captive by Cersei, neutralizing the might of the Arbor," not Ned answered. "There are other stratagems we can employ to whittle down Renly's advantages," he continued.

The tone in the room shifted perceptively at Lord Stark's mention of war tactics.

"Lord Stark?" Stannis suddenly blurted, jaw clenching and unclenching.

"Yes, your Grace?"

"I would … hear your council." His teeth ground and then let up enough to say, "in private."

* * *

"These magpies and their incessant bleating, I weary of it," Stannis announced.

The man appeared uncomfortable as he stared at the actor. Not Ned smiled politely, bobbed his head in acknowledgement of the King's words, and said nothing in response.

The crowned stag brought his hands together, intertwining his fingers, and then cracked his knuckles.

'You can't intimidate me,' Sean thought. 'I'm Richard Sharpe. I'm Boromir. I'm fucking Odysseus. I'm a god damned Greek god! I'm a sly lad from Yorkshire. Get on with it already ya hard arsed bugger.'

"What is your price, Lord Stark?"

Sean blinked. He rubbed his lips together, formulating his answer. "Peace, your Grace. Peace so my family, my banners, and the smallfolk of the North can have enough to eat, raise their children, and grow comfortably old. Winter is coming; and I would have it without the fear of war or rape or famine or worse. _That_ is my price, your Grace."

Stannis' eyes narrowed, perhaps as startled by the actor's answer as not Ned had been by the King's blunt cut to the chase. "You seemed surprised by my question, Lord Stark. Why is that, when your might so far surpasses my own? You do your duty, but you loved Robert, not me. Am I to believe it is only northern sense of duty that would place me on the Iron Throne?" he asked scornfully.

Sean chuckled softly. 'Wow do you have enough issues to keep a therapist in hock for years.'

Stannis ground his teeth. "I amuse you, my Lord?"

"My apologies, your Grace, truly. I had forgotten quite how direct you are. Most men, knowing what had befallen me at the Lannister's hands," and with that, Sean made a chopping motion across his neck, "would first seek to reassure themselves that I am actually Eddard Stark and not some clever mummer or sorcerer posing as him. But then, you are not most men, your Grace."

"Bah," the crowned stag snorted in dismissal. "I talked with Ser Wendel on Fury. I've talked with your lords. Some are as foolish as any man, but only a true fool would believe a mummer, as you say, could pass himself off as Lord Stark to his wife, family, and all the banners of the North."

'Surprise!' "And the Old Gods returning me to life? Showing me visions of the future, the present, and the past?" not Ned inquired with a tilt of his head.

Stannis' eyes flitted back and forth, as if reliving memories. "Yes," he whispered.

"Melisandre," Sean responded immediately.

The King's eyebrows first shot up and then his eyes narrowed suspiciously. "How?" he demanded angrily.

Sean pointed at the crown atop Stannis' head. "Do you now worship the flames, your Grace?"

The crowned stag reached up and touched the circlet, and an unreadable expression passed over him. "Lady … her Grace Selyse." He cleared his throat. "You worship trees and your Old Gods, Lord Stark, not the Seven. What do you care what I worship?"

"I? I don't care, your Grace; that is true. But my price is peace. And if you publicly turn your back on the Seven; if you refuse to be seen in a sept; if you allow the Queen's followers to burn images of the Seven or worse, then you spurn the smallfolk and the pious among your lords and knights. That, your Grace, will destroy peace," not Ned explained.

Stannis ground his teeth yet again as he spat, "You claim only 'peace,' but make the gentle sounding word twist and turn in your mouth until it means whatever you want. You would enslave me with this 'peace' of yours. I refuse this chain you seek to leash me with. When Renly is brought to heel, then Westeros shall have peace, Lord Stark."

Sean smiled as kindly and sympathetically as he could. "If only it were that simple, your Grace," the actor answered with a sigh.


	19. Chapter 19

"My patience … is not … without … limits," Stannis choked out. "If you do not intend to remain in King's Landing and help me against my brother; then be gone, and take your faithless banners with you. There are … other ways to deal with Renly."

'Melisandre!' Sean felt his scrote retract into his body at the thought of her. "Your Red Priestess," he murmured.

Stannis' face remained set in stone, with its perpetual accusatory glare at the world, but something in his eyes betrayed surprise at her mention.

"Tell me, your Grace," not Ned continued, "when she stares in the flames, what does she see of me? Do I prove faithless? Do I leave you in your time of need? Do I betray you? What does her Red God show her that makes you distrust me so?"

Stannis' close shaved beard bobbed like the sea as he chewed his lip uncomfortably before responding. "You have always been a dutiful man, Lord Stark," he declared slowly, begrudgingly. "I told Lady Melisandre so before I left Dragonstone."

'What? You're trying to dodge the question, ya bugger, and doing it badly. God you'd be an easy mark at poker.' "The truth this time, your Grace, what does she see of me?" Sean demanded, with Ned's icy steel in his voice.

His hollow cheeks mottled with anger, the King apparently outraged by anyone implying he would provide anything less than 'the truth.' "Nothing!" he at last barked unhappily.

"Nothing?" he echoed, confused.

"No. She cannot find even a shadow of you in the flame, Lord Stark," he admitted in a fury of disappointment. "Nor anything you touch either, apparently."

'Holy shit!' the actor thought, elated. 'Don't smile. Don't laugh.' Despite his best effort a smirk formed on Sean's lips. "An extra benefit of being resurrected that the Old Gods failed to include in the visions they shared with me. I'd have slept better these last two months if I'd known that," he announced

Stannis, through his association with the Red Bitch, took the use and presence of magic very seriously, thus he didn't bat an eyelash of surprise at not Ned's statement. Heat now cooling some from his cheeks, he did suspiciously inquire, "You do not approve of the Lady Melisandre?"

"No, your Grace, I do not. She plays a game I know neither the rules to nor what constitutes victory or defeat. She …" Sean paused a moment, trying to remember the books and figure how to best press this seeming advantage over the crowned stag. "Let me … Let me ask you this, your Grace. What has the Red Priestess told you of the Krakens?"

That question brought Stannis up short, surprise showed on his stony mien. "House Greyjoy? Nothing. Why?"

Sean's smirk opened into a full blown smile. "The Lady Melisandre sees a lot of nothing in the flames." The actor felt his confidence soar. "You grew angry with me, your grace, when I said, 'if only it were that simple.' I'll tell you what I meant. First, Balon Greyjoy is gathering his banners and their longships. He's remaking the Iron Fleet. With the Seven Kingdoms in revolt, he intends to again declare himself the King of the Iron Islands."

With that pronouncement, not Ned watched Stannis' rollercoaster ride of emotions, though all of a type, and that negative, continue. The teeth grinding man had fought against George's take on Vikings before and harbored only ill will for them. That ill will was then amplified by the Greyjoy threat to the sanctity of the realm the crowned stag now claimed to rule.

"But you have … ? Why are you still … ? Ahem. Do the ironborn not intend to attack the North, Lord Stark?" Stannis finally asked.

"They do, your Grace. Balon's been driven mad by his hate. I stole his last son. And even if I were to return Theon to Pyke, Balon would never fully trust him; paranoid that his boy has suckled too long at the teat of the direwolf. Theon's use as a hostage is over. He can, perhaps, now only be used to help pick up the pieces of his father's folly."

Stannis, though he hated the fripperies and underhanded ploys so often associated with the Game of Thrones, clearly showed in his face that he understood the political ramifications of what not Ned had stated. He did however have holes to try and poke in the actor's fortune telling. "If they are to attack the north, then do your banners know?"

Sean shook his head. "No, your Grace. Would the Dustins, the Flints, the Ryswells, the Glovers, the Mormonts be here if they knew the ironborn were preparing to raid their homes, kill their smallfolks, and make saltwives of their women? No. I needed them here. Only King Stannis can bring peace to all of the Seven Kingdoms."

The crowned stag frowned. "My fleet is far from the Sunset Sea, Lord Stark; and, the Arbor is not declared for me," he announced, identifying the only other sea power able to match the ironborn. "Will Greyjoy attack the Westerlands and the Reach too?" he asked hopefully.

"They do. And you should know, your Grace, that Paxter Redwyne's two sons are right now in the Red Keep, Cersei's hostages. Should one of them, say, be returned to Lord Paxter; along with a warning of the coming storm of longships …"

"Yes, yes," Stannis snapped impatiently. "I am not addle minded, Lord Stark. A child can see the potential benefits of such … diplomacy. I mean to be the King of all the Seven Kingdoms, and would not see any part of it, even one in rebellion, suffer so," he declared resolutely.

'Touchy prick.' Not Ned bowed courteously, conceding the King's point. He, however, stood back up with a superior smile on his face.

The dour look never left the crowned stag's face. "There's something more, isn't there?" he spat out.

"Did your Red Priestess see the cold of the Wall in her hot flames, your Grace?"

Stannis ground his teeth. "No."

Sean nodded, encouraged by his response. "There's another King in Westeros. A King-beyond-the-Wall. His name is Mance Rayder, a former brother of the Watch."

Stannis stopped grinding and started gnawing his lips. "The Wildlings are not part of the Seven Kingdoms. What is this so called King to me? Let the Night's Watch deal with their wayward brother. 'Tis their duty, and their duty alone, to defend the realm from the Wall," he stated with uncomfortable justification.

"Even when Mance means to lead one hundred thousand wildlings through the Wall to settle the North?"

The King took a large breath, as if preparing himself, and rubbed his beard. His hand may have hid any heat rising in his cheeks, but fire shone in his deep set blue eyes. "I see a convenient pattern, Lord Stark," he said with biting irony. "Let me guess, you haven't told your banners this either? Have you!?" he accused.

The actor shrugged. "Would the Umbers, the Karstarks, and many of my other far northern banners be here if they knew of the coming invasion?" he asked rhetorically.

The crowned stag scowled and threw up his hands in frustration. "You say these things as if you grant me a favor instead of giving me my right as your King."

'Well I am, thankless bastard.'

"… With no more … no more propriety than a serving wench passing around spirits at a tavern! I will not be mocked with fake coincidences, Lord Stark. Yes, my debt to you is vast in helping me secure my birthright. I will not even dispute the miracle of your return. But I will not, I will not!" he bellowed in a near tantrum. "Be played! The Greyjoy tale I could have believed. But two? No. Where will it stop?!"

'You have no idea.'

"Do you seek to scare me with such woes that I, Stannis Baratheon, will cling to you? Like a frightened child clutching at his mother's skirts in a storm?! No, Ser!"

"You haven't asked me what the wildlings are fleeing, your Grace." Sean answered calmly

"Others take me!" Stannis swore in abject frustration.

'They just might,' Sean thought with a shiver. Sean then tried to quickly clear his head, the situation clearly becoming even trickier then he'd imagined it would. He hoped his relationship with Stannis didn't completely fall in the shitter. 'Turns out the stiffed neck, touchy son of a bitch is paranoid as hell too; and not nearly susceptible enough to Ned's Old Gods charm.' Then a random stray thought struck him. 'I wonder who David and DB will get to play this giant miffed arse next season?' Immediately the images of two of his 'Sharpe' comrades popped into his brain: Brian Cox and Pete Postlethwaite. 'Either'd be bloody brilliant! Well a little long in the tooth … and not damn near tall enough; course Mark wasn't exactly the perfect model of Robert Warhammer Baratheon, was he?' the actor frowned. 'I never imagined myself as Ned Stark either, really.' He smiled. 'But that's why I'm an actor; and a fucking fine one, ain't I?'

Stannis Baratheon took a deep breath, as if to keep from drowning, between each outraged filled word he spoke, "Why … are … wildlings … fleeing!?"

The sought for question returned Not Ned to the dangerous here and now with the implacable King, and he began speaking earnestly. "I would beg of your Grace to send a ship to Dragonstone. If I remember correctly your former seat has large quantities of dragonglass. I will pay whatever price you want to gathered as much of it as possible and have it transported to Eastwatch-by-the-Sea. Within a year's time, the black brothers will have desperate need of it."

The only sound to escape the King's lips was that of his teeth grinding.

Sean pushed on. "After watching the city almost burn down in wildfire, there is no love and much hate for the pyromancers. I would, with your permission, offer, to any of their guild willing to move, a refuge in Winterfell," the actor continued.

Stannis slammed his fist down on the table he stood next to, towered over; his tight face purplish-red through his close black beard.

Sean ignored the violent outburst. "The Lord Commander of the Night's Watch has ordered one of his few knights to carry part of a mystery he encountered in December to King's Landing. Ser Alliser may arrive in a month or he may arrive in three. I am," and the actor's voice hesitated a bit, "unclear. But when he does, you will have a token, physical proof, of what drives the wildlings to escape the Land Beyond the Wall."

"Why?" the crowned stag croaked, voice near breaking from barely restrained fury.

"Why the wildlings or why I ask so much of you, your Grace?" he responded.

"Why do you torment me so, Lord Stark!?" Stannis bellowed.

"A King is supposed to serve the realm, your Grace; not the other way around. Dark times, times not seen since the Age of Heroes, are coming to Westeros, whether you will it or not." Not Ned chuckled softly as he said, "Even your Red Priestess seems to know the realm cries out for an Azor Ahai, real or otherwise, to oppose the oncoming winter."

"Am I such a man?" the crowned stag spat.

The actor couldn't tell through the hostility whether the King's question was rhetorical, accusatory, or laced in doubt, so he answered with a calm, reassuring smile, "Yes, your Grace, you are. That is why I chose you to be my King. Not because your birth claim is better, though it is. Nor from any belief that you are Azor Ahai reborn. But because unlike the other slender reeds seeking to sit upon the Iron Throne and proclaim themselves King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men; Lord of the Seven Kingdoms; and, Protector of the Realm, you … you, Stannis Baratheon, are the only one willing to sacrifice his life in defense of the realm."

Stannis bit his lower lip. "You expect me to die then?"

The actor laughed lightly again, 'Jesus, you're as bad to argue with as any one of my four ex-wives.' "No. I honestly hope you don't die, your Grace. Trust me, death is … well …" He cleared his throat, 'final,' he thought. "I have faith in your honor, your sense of duty, to do the right thing for the realm, always."

The King took a steadying breath. "It has always been said you do your duty, Lord Stark; and no one would claim any less of me," he quickly amended. "If you had only told me duty and your price of 'peace' were what drove you to support me, I suppose I might have believed you," he said dubiously, "though I'd have trusted you more if you stated your price was to become my Hand or a marriage between one of your sons and my Shireen."

'Trusted me? Hell no. Understood, perhaps, if I were actually at all like most of the greedy hypocrites Westeros calls lords,' Sean thought.

"And while no man in my hearing has ever called you a liar," and Stannis' face began to clench and cloud over.

'But now you're going to politely call me one.'

"These claims, extraordinary claims; however, are …" and Stannis looked like he was sucking on a lemon, "difficult to believe. I know much of you, Lord Stark, but I do not know you."

'Whom do you trust, Stannis. People like Davos, who owe everything to you? I'm not about to let you chop my fingers off, slap head! Do you even trust your friends? Of course! You don't have friends, do you, you stupid sod!'

"Events will soon enough show whether your … visions … of the ironborn and the so called King-Beyond-the-Wall hold more truth than … Melisandre's flames. Until then, so long as you do your duty and continue to support me, Lord Stark, I will have no complaint with you," the crowned stag begrudgingly finished.

'How magnanimous of you, bloody wanker.' Sean bowed gracefully. "Your Grace, you have my obedience and loyalty." He stood back up. "I look forward to getting to know _you_ better in these next months, as we work wolf's paw in stag's hoof to cage the lion and carefully pluck the thorns from the rose that Lord Renly clutches."

Stannis' lips might have split ever so slightly in a polite smile at not Ned's word play. "Your council will undoubtedly be useful, Lord Stark."

'Time to take the stag by the horns,' Sean thought. "'Tis Ned, your Grace. Or please, at least Lord Eddard when it's just the two of us."

The semi-smile immediately slipped into a half frown.

"You have likely thought that while I loved Robert, I was no friend of yours. There is truth in that; however, in fairness, our paths have seldom crossed, and then only briefly. Under such limiting … circumstances, how could we become friends? But circumstances … change, such as now. I would work to earn your friendship … Stannis," Sean dared broach.

The King blinked and then murmured from a face again contorted into a sour appearing disposition, "Though I think Kings are not meant to have friends, that … would not be … unpleasant."

"The first step of true friendship is trust," the actor continued. "I trust you, Stannis. I trust you to do right for the realm. I hope you discover that you can trust in me as well," 'don't push it any further,' "your Grace."

The crowned stag brought his hands together, gripping them so tightly the fingers shown pale. "We shall see," he proclaimed through gritted teeth.

Sean hoped he hadn't just stuck his cock any further in the muck.


	20. Chapter 20

**Robb (II)**

The young warrior strode confidently along the twisting alleys of King's Landing as the sun slowly set to the west, his Old Gods blessed lord father on one side and his awe inspiring direwolf Grey Wind to the other. Behind, an afternoon had been mostly spent chatting amongst his comrades in arms and the new, salty acquaintances about the coming campaign once the Red Keep fell. Being one of the few to know that a secret passage had already been discovered into the Lannisters' lair, he'd smugly felt superior, but nevertheless kept as quiet as a Silent Sister on that particular topic. And now ahead, a glass of wine, his pretty wife, and a warm snug bed lay await. 'What more could a man want?' he asked himself. Still, something kept niggling at him; an irritation demanding to be itched.

Finally, after several more minutes of walking, Robb's youthful impatience could wait no longer. "The King does not seem to care for me," he whispered, so that the eight grey clad, wolf's head badged Winterfell guardsmen escorting them back to their lodgings couldn't hear him criticize the dour lout.

His father's tired, aging face grimaced briefly before returning to its usual placid demeanor. "His Grace is a complicated man; living in even more complicated times," his father answered coolly, not bothering to much lower his voice.

'It'd have been a lot less complicated if you'd become King of the North, father,' Robb thought; an opinion he dared not say aloud, remembering the epic rant he and all 'his' lords had received from the snarling 'Old' Wolf that evening in the cramped main hall of modest Castle Darry.

"_Sers, lords, northmen, lend me your ears! I come to bury the 'King of the North,' not to praise him. The treachery that men do lives after them, the good is oft interred with their bones. So let it be with this title, 'The King of the North.' A fool thinks himself to be wise, but a wise man knows himself to be a fool. To thy real King be true, and it must follow, as the night the day, thou canst not then be false to any man."_

"_How now, you secret, black, and midnight rogues! What is't you did? By the pricking of your honor, something wicked this way has come! This course, which has made a tomb of your virtue and honor, is but a walking shadow; a 'King of the North' that struts and frets his honor upon the game of thrones, and then is heard no more: it is a tale told by a fool, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing. The Old Gods have given each of you a face, and you made yourselves another! Virtue is bold, and goodness never fearful."_

"_If you Sers do not reverse your course, this foul deed shall smell above the earth, with carrion men, groaning for burial. There is a tide, a veritable flood, in the affairs of men, which taken with honor leads on to fortune. Omitted, all the voyage of our life is bound in shallows and in miseries. On such a full sea are we now afloat. Will we take the current as dutiful northmen and lords of the Trident, or lose ourselves in the swell of despair? Come with me and join the true King, Stannis Baratheon, First of his Name; the golden age is before us, not behind."_

Robb could admit to himself that the loss of his title on his father's miraculous return had stung. He knew he'd done well; calling and taming his banners (some of them still even frightened him a bit), the Whispering Woods, relieving Riverrun, rallying the Riverland lords to his side. However, the Young Wolf wouldn't deny the nervous, queasy feeling the responsibility for some many lives had caused to churn, hidden, inside himself. 'I'd have made a fine King; Mother and Father taught me well.' But married to that thought was the memory of enormous relief, the burden lifting off his shoulders, when he first again spied his father. 'I'll make a find Lord too, when the time came; Old Gods let it be many years,' he prayed.

"Ahem!"

He looked over and caught his lord father staring at him. Robb promptly snapped out of his ruminations, red blooming on his cheeks. "Ser?"

"Give the King time, Robb. You've already proven yourself a knacky general, lad. Soon enough events will allow his Grace to judge your loyalty with his own eyes."

"Yes, father," Robb whispered. 'But no one's been more loyal to him than you, and the sour fart doesn't seem to like you much either.'

* * *

"Ned!" his mother called.

"Robb!" Roslin squealed.

Immediately, warm feelings swamped him. "Sweetling!" he cried back. He hadn't seen his love all day long, and now his heart beat faster as she rushed her slender body into his arms. Something else within him beat faster too as he looked forward to quickly meeting his family obligations here in the apartment's main salon and taking his bride back to their cozy bedroom for more intimate socializing.

"Yuck!" Arya barked, watching the pair embrace. She was sitting in a chair, sharpening her Needle with a whetstone; and while her eyes left the deadly sharp blade, her steady measured strokes never wavered.

Though fully engaged savoring Roslin's feel, scent, and promise of much more, the young man still took a moment to stick his tongue out at his youngest sister.

His mother snorted in amusement, though he wasn't sure whether it was because of his childish display or that Grey Wind was rubbing his furry snout between their legs looking for affection.

"What?" Roslin murmured in his ear.

"Nothing, dear heart," he whispered back tenderly.

Regardless of whether his words soothed her or not, his lady wife slipped out of his embrace, but kept a grip on one hand. "Come, Robb, I've been working with my goodsister and Lady Jeyne on a new shirt for you to wear to the King's coronation."

Now it was the Young Wolf's time to snort his amusement. "Didn't you know, Roslin; Stannis has already crowned himself."

"Oh pooh," his sweet wife spouted. "We heard. That hardly counts," she scoffed.

"I see gossip still flies faster than Raven wings," his father chuckled.

"Do you think the King would forgo having a grand ceremony before the Iron Throne where all the lords in their finest pledge him their fealty?" his mother asked with perfect reasonability. "Especially once his queenly wife, her Grace Selyse, arrives?"

Knowing the benefits of a feigned retreat in the presence of a flanking attack, Robb held his tongue as to what he thought Stannis 'prickly ass' Baratheon would or would not do. 'I wonder what kind of hag the Queen is, if he's only ever gotten one child on her,' he thought. 'Or is his cock as prickly a beast as his ass?'

"Now go with Roslin," his mother cajoled, "and see what she's embroidering with Sansa and dear Jeyne."

Robb plastered on a smile and let his lady wife lead him to the corner of the candle lit room, where the pair of tortured girls, best friends since childhood, hid from the world. A snow white silk tunic lay draped over their laps and the intricate outline of a direwolf's head was taking shape on it.

"Hello Sansa," he said gently; undoubtedly over emphasizing the kindness, and thus drawing unnecessary attention to them. 'Damn you Old Gods, when will I act naturally again with my own sister,' he swore to himself. "Hope you haven't stabbed … uh jabbed yourself too badly on my account with all your stitching," Robb japed with false cheer.

Roslin stepped on his foot at the horrible verbal blunder.

What little color glimmered in Sansa's blue eyes flickered out. And she tucked her chin down into her neck, trying to hide her disfigured face and broken soul.

The Young Wolf gasped. "That's … amazing! Where did you get that yellow? It practically glows!" He grinned and turned towards Jeyne's nearly vacant face. "I swear I'm looking right into Grey Wind's eyes!" he said with enthusiasm, edging closer to the girl. "May I?" he asked, hand outstretched to the tunic.

Jeyne smiled shyly and lifted the partially embroidered shirt up to him. Robb took it from her, their fingers lightly touching for the barest instant, and then Jeyne's hands promptly crashed back into her lap; arms quivering in fear at memory of contact with some other, lascivious man's flesh.

He'd thought more than once through the years that Jeyne had had a crush on him. Looking at the sunken eyes in her once lively face, he felt pity for the still pretty and badly raped girl. No matter what his father swore, no reputable house would willingly join even a third or fourth son to such damaged goods. He felt Roslin gently squeeze his fingers and he turned to look into her big brown eyes. 'Well, many'd say the same of the Freys. I suppose there's hope for her.' "Thank you ladies, this is tremendous," he said with an exaggerated smile, suddenly feeling all false again. "I shall wear it proudly not only on King Stannis' 'true' coronation, but any time I attend court in the throne room."

Roslin at least appreciated his sentiments and squeezed his hand encouragingly yet again. An urgency swept over him. The Young Wolf could hardly wait another moment to cover her lithe body in hot kisses and feel her sweaty, naked skin plastered against his. "Have you eaten," he whispered to her.

She nodded, an understanding playful smile revealing the tiny, adorable gap in her two front teeth.

The Young Wolf felt the beginning of a cock stand. "If you will kindly excuse us, dear family, but it has been a rather long day, and I feel like retiring for the night.

Arya snorted. "I know what you want to retire for," she muttered under her breath.

"Ahem."

Robb looked at his father, who'd cleared his throat. "Yes?" he inquired, noting with concern the paleness and small sheen of sweat on the Old Wolf's face.

"I would have private words with you and your lady mother, Robb. In my chambers," his father said gravely.

'Old Gods damn you, Stannis Baratheon. What did you say to my father today!' he raged in side. "Of course, Ser," he promptly replied, letting go of Roslin's hand and not even noticing his erection shrivel up.

* * *

Grey Wind refused to enter the room. He sternly pointed a hand through the open door into his parent's bed chamber. The direwolf let out a low growl expressing a difference of opinion. "Grey Wind," he complained. His pack mate spun half around, aiming his huge body down the hall back towards the common room; but keeping his head turned to keep questioning yellow eyes at Robb. "Now," he commanded. The beast almost whimpered, a sound the Young Wolf hadn't heard Grey Wind make since he played hard with his five litter mates as a puppy. "Come," he growled. The direwolf took a tentative further step away. "Stupid mutt," he murmured in frustration, giving up. From experience, Robb knew that making a direwolf, even this one who'd bonded to him like a brother, do something it didn't want to do usually wasn't worth the trouble. "Go on then. Find Roslin, Grey Wind. Find Roslin."

The beast's tail instantly popped up in evident relief and off it trotted.

'You may only tolerate father now,' the Young Wolf thought, 'but at least you approve the wife he choose for me.' Robb smiled. He approved of his father's choice too. He still couldn't understand how such an angelic creature could have been born out of anything that spurted from the loins of Walder Frey's bitter shriveled old cock.

He entered the room to find mother seated delicately on an overstuffed settee that threatened to swallow her and his father standing by a window, glass of wine in hand, staring out into the night's sky.

"It's very pretty," his father muttered.

"Father?" Robb asked.

"Ned?" his mother asked.

"The Red Comet," he answered, back to them, still gazing through the window. "The Dragon's Tail. The Red Messenger. The Sword that Slays the Seasons. The Bleeding Star." His Father took a long gulp of the wine.

"It's an omen," Robb responded.

The Old Wolf laughed. "It's a gigantic ball of ice and rubble with a high ferrous content flying through the void that heats up as it passes near the sun and pushes out a cloud of iron colored gas. But an omen of what?" he concluded.

"Your return," his lady mother proclaimed proudly.

"The fall of the Lannisters," the Young Wolf said fiercely.

"That, and much more too," his lord father stated darkly.

The hackles raised on the back of Robb's neck. His father had changed since his return from … 'Well, wherever it was he returned from," the young man thought. And while his father at first could hardly remember the names and faces of the men and banners who'd served him all of Robb's sixteen years, his father, the Old Wolf; and wasn't his face older and more lined than before, knew things, important things, that no single man could ever possibly have discovered. His father had held his knowledge close. Perhaps now? Robb cleared his throat, trying to keep his voice steady. "Tell us, father," he asked.

The Old Wolf slowly turned away from the window and the faint glow of red lighting the glass. He stared a moment at Robb. He stared a moment at Robb's mother.

Robb shivered, he swore his father's icy grey eyes faded away to a flinty green while he held their gazes, weighing their soles, judging whether they were worthy or not of his confidences.

"You thought it unfair of me to have left Theon behind in Riverrun," his father said, ending the stare and the seemingly prolonged silence. He took another sip of wine.

The bald statement and the grey returning to the Old Wolf's eyes struck Robb with disbelief. He glanced nervously over at his mother. Her face revealed surprise too. "Uhm, yes father. Theon … is my friend." He started to feel confident in his reply. "Theon fought beside me in the Whispering Woods and at Riverrun too. He deserves a place of honor here with us, not practically locked up in grandfather's keep watching how moldy old Utherydes stewards."

"Balon Greyjoy is calling his longships. The ironborn intend to attack the North."

Robb sucked in a breath. His mother gasped audibly.

"Tell no one," the Old Wolf commanded sternly. "We cannot afford to have our banners return North until Renly and the Tyrells are defeated."

A painful fire started to grow in Robb's belly. "How long have you known?" he asked in wonder.

"Since I woke up in White Harbor," he answered softly, then swirled his glass before taking another long draught.

"But we have Theon," his mother said with confusion. "Surely his father won't risk …"

"Balon Greyjoy is mad," the Old Wolf cut in harshly. "And he wants revenge against me from his last rebellion. Besides, he thinks Theon half wolf already."

"Ha!" Robb barked with harsh irony. He well remembered the many years his father kept a desperate for attention Theon at arm's length. Then a new, terrible thought struck him. "You told Stannis already! Didn't you?!" he accused angrily, bitter that his father had confided in that … that … self-righteous … ungrateful … King-come-lately.

"That, and much more, son," his father answered.

The Young Wolf stomped a foot, feeling betrayed, belittled.

"Robb!" his mother cautioned him.

"Mother, why?!" he asked plaintively.

She swallowed. "Think like a war leader, Robb. Think like a great lord. Where is our fleet?" She jabbed a finger vaguely in the direction of the Blackwater. "Our fleet lies there and its admiral's name is Stannis Baratheon."

Now it was Robb's turn to swallow. Swallow hard.

"My lord husband," his mother continued. "Does the Kraken only intend to ensnare wolves?" she asked with a slight tremor.

His father cracked a wry grin. "Thankfully no. He does mean to try and make an Iron Kingdom out of part of the North by taking Moat Cailin, but most of his might will be sent against the richer plunder in the Westerlands and the Reach."

Possibilities crackled inside the Young Wolf's clever brain, dousing, for the time being, the anger in his heart. "Lord Helman, he has near half a thousand men at the Twins. They could go guard Moat Cailin."

His father's grin started to turn into a smile. "Exactly. What else?" he prodded.

"Ser Stafford Lannister is training a new army near Lannisport. He won't dare move against us once word reaches him of longships off the coast."

"And?"

"If … if the ironborn come soon enough, the Tyrells will need to shift much of their strength back south." His voice brightened. "We could even send some sort of secret, believable warnings to their banners right now, especially the Redwynes."

His mother practically beamed at him. "Cleverly thought, my son." Then her face turned serious and she addressed her lordly husband. "But there's more, isn't there Ned? More than just Renly and the Tyrells."

His father sighed heavily, "Yes." And took another mouth of wine. "Lord Commander Mormont has taken most of his best men on a great ranging beyond the Wall. A new king has arisen among the wildlings, uniting them, and is bringing them south; all one hundred thousand of them. Mormont hopes to break Mance Rayder's army," he said sadly.

And last fire in his belly collapsed into cold ashes. "Jon," he whispered.

His mother frowned at mention of his bastard brother.

"He's gone on the ranging," the Old Wolf confirmed. And again the man's eyes fluttered between grey and green as he seemed to stare up at the ceiling or into a private vision. "He … should life."

Robb gulped. "Tell no one?" he asked softly.

His father nodded. "The Umbers, the Karstarks, and many more would leave the instant they knew so many might threaten their homes."

Robb and his mother both nodded agreement.

"Worse," the Old Wolf continued, "We are going to have to convince our banners to let the Free Folks live among us in the North."

"What!?" Robb spluttered in outrage.

"Ned, you can't be serious," his wife gasped.

"Yes. Yes, I'm deadly serious," the Old Wolf snarled. He swung back towards the window and pointed at it. "Out there, the Red Messenger, the Dragon's Tail. Do you know what its an omen of? Do you?! I'll tell you. The return of magic. The return of the Others."

Robb's hackles returned at mention of the Ancient Enemy. He felt ice form in his blood. "No. It can't be," he whispered. His father would never make such a claim without dead certainty.

His father turned back around, face pale as snow. "It is," he said in a husky voice. A flicker of a smile whispered over his lips. "Fear of the Others and the undead wights they animate is what drives Mance Rayder and the wildlings to pass south of the Wall. The magic of the Wall stops the Others, but not their wights, from entering the North. Unfortunately the King-beyond-the-Wall has discovered a magic to collapse the Wall, unless they're let through."

"It can't be true," his stunned mother murmured. "It can't possibly be true. No, no it can't."

"Despite our hate for them Cat, do we dare risk it? The North is vast. There's room enough and more for them. It won't be easy. Few are the lords they willingly bow to, and only those who've earned it by their strength."

His mother smiled, "Greatjon."

His father smiled. "I imagine they'll have little problem bowing to him, or to Lord Rickard either. No, it definitely won't be easy," he repeated.

Robb cleared his throat, trying not to sound like a drowning man hacking up his lungs. "Can the Others be fought?"

"With Valyrian steel, wildfire, or dragonglass, an Other may be killed," the Old Wolf announced, though with a lack of utter certainty. His father now cleared his throat. "The King will allow us to take pyromancers back North after Renly is dealt with. And in a few days he will let a small fleet of ships depart here for Dragonstone. His island home has a plethora of dragonglass. Arrowheads and small blades can be shaped out of the obsidian. One boat will head for Eastwatch-by-the-sea, another to White Harbor, and the third back here to King's Landing." As his father described the effort to get the Other slaying rock off of Dragonstone, an enigmatic, but definitely smug, look overtook his face, which he eventually hid behind another sip of wine.

"I could use a glass too," his mother announced. "Robb, would you?" she asked.

He nodded and stepped over to the table where the open bottle and several glasses lay.

His father walked up next to him and set his now empty glass down. "Fill mine too, if you please … son."

Robb nodded and poured. Finished, he handed the first glass to his mother. Father had already picked his up, and the Young Wolf then did likewise. The rim poised at his lips, the aroma of an Arbor Red, admittedly from a bad year, second pressing, or an inferior vineyard, and felt the need to say something, anything. "Winter is coming," he toasted and at last let the grape nectar slide over his palate.

When he lowered the glass, Robb found the Old Wolf gazing at him And for the third time that night he got the eerie sensation that his father's eyes were more green than grey.

"Do you dream as Grey Wind, Robb?" his father suddenly asked.


	21. Chapter 21

**Catelyn (I)**

"Do you dream as Grey Wind, Robb?" Ned suddenly asked.

'Hunh?' Catelyn thought, confused at her husband's random, unusual sounding question.

Robb looked befuddled too, crinkling his nose and eyebrows towards each other. "Well … I guess I must; sure, I dream of Grey Wind."

"No, you misunderstand me son. Do you dream _AS IF_ you were Grey Wind?" Ned repeated with additional emphasis.

Catelyn's already sour stomach gurgled. Acidic bile threatened to creep up her throat. 'What is Ned talking about?' she wondered.

As if the evening's conversation couldn't have been more nerve wracking already, the question seemed to bother her son. He unconsciously shuffled his feet. His eyes wandered, as if reliving a memory. "I … I don't … I don't understand, father," he stuttered in reply, clearly disturbed.

Her lord husband remorselessly drove onward. "In Winterfell, or on your ride to Riverrun, or during the march here, have you had dreams where you ran four legs and hunted for prey? Dreams where the smells and sounds of the forest are brighter, more real than when you're awake?"

The bile had crept into Cat's mouth, she tried to choke it down, but the bitter, harsh residue clung to the flesh of her checks, sticking to her tongue, permeating her saliva, drowning her taste buds. She thought she might vomit.

"And then, when you catch the scent of a rabbit or a deer, your pulse races with excitement and you run faster, until you catch the beast and revel in the taste of warm fresh blood?"

"Father?" Robb said uncertainly.

"Ned!" Catelyn complained.

"Do you?" he snapped.

Robb pushed his hands through the scarce red beard of his cheeks and through the thick hair on the sides of his head. "Yes!" he shouted. Then, in a quieter, much quieter voice, "Yes, yes I do. How? How do you know?"

"Ned?" Catelyn wailed.

"Jon has those dreams. Maybe Rickon too. Bran has them, and more. But they're not dreams, son. They're not."

"No no no no no no no no no," Catelyn repeated. "Not my babies. No, not my babies. This is all too much, damn you! All too much!"

Robb wagged his head from side to side. "I'm not a warg. I'm not a warg," he chanted, dazed by the facts thrust in his face.

A kind smile appeared on her husband's face. "It's alright." He stepped forward and tried to take Robb by the arms but the boy jerked away from his father.

"Don't touch me!" he shouted.

"It's a gift son. A gift of the Old Gods."

"No! Not my children! Maybe you're damned bastard, but not my children!" Catelyn began to cry.

"Catelyn, it's a gift. Robb isn't any different than the day he was born. Robb was born with the skills to be a fine warrior; a great war leader. But those skills would have become nothing if he hadn't sword trained everyday with Ser Rodrick. He'd have lived and died without ever knowing he had this talent except for the pups we found."

"Damns those wolves!" Catelyn swore. "Damn you Eddard Stark for letting my children bring them home! To pervert them! I … I …" She dropped to the floor and wretched up her sparse dinner.

Robb scrambled down to squat beside her. "No, mother, don't say that. Bran … that assassin would have killed him, and you! If it weren't for Summer. You'd … You'd" and the boy started weeping as well. "You'd have died. Please don't say this, don't think this about me, about Bran or Rickon, about our wolves. Please," he begged.

Catelyn spat, trying to expunge the bile taste from her mouth. Then she stared up with steely blue eyes at the distant, cold, hateful figure of her husband. "Why?" she whispered. "Why now? Why tell us at all? What about Sansa? And Arya?"

The Lord of Winterfell shrugged his shoulders. "Lady is dead and Numeria set free. Maybe they have the skill? Maybe they don't? But without a direwolf to bond on, I don't think we'll ever know."

Catelyn hated the Old Gods; hated them with all the great power her love of family brought her. They were capricious gods. They'd returned her husband, or half of him. More considerate, more passionate, yes; but more infuriating and mysterious too: what he knew, what he no longer remembered. 'Others take them,' she thought, then sobbed at the implication of what she said if Ned's vision was true. "Why now," she squeaked out between her tears.

"This is the last secret I've kept," Ned announced.

Catelyn sensed Robb beside her go utterly still.

"Daenerys Targaryen, the daughter of the Mad King, she's been wandering the last year in the Dothraki Sea."

"Yes?" her son asked in a hushed voice.

"She's hatched three dragons," her husband announced calmly.

No. This was too much. The world spun. Her stomach rebelled on her again.

"Grab her," she heard Ned yell.

When she came back to herself she felt a soft mattress beneath her and a warm blanket atop her. And she heard voices.

"You think I could control a dragon, like Bran?"

"Certainly not now. Maybe not ever. You don't have the skills, Robb. Not yet at least. Let's hope that Daenerys stays in Essos with Jorah Mormont and Ser Barristan; and we never have to find out."

Their voices slowly faded out again. 'Oh Bran. Oh Rickon. My babies. The Long Winter truly is coming.'

* * *

She lay on the edge of a bed. The first light of dawn was sneaking in the window. The sunlight felt more real, truer than the glow from the Red Comet. The Red Comet! Memories of the night before flooded her. Her stomach lurched on her, but bless the Mother she fought down the dry heaves. She tossed and turned. Her feet nudged a supine form lying on the far side of the mattress.

Ned rolled over, facing her, now awake.

"Cat?" he called softly.

She didn't respond; her anger too fresh, too raw. She turned her back to him. She'd survived her mother's premature death, Brandon's murder, and marriage to a stranger who brought a bastard to her new strange, cold home. She'd built a life nevertheless. A happy life all things considered, loving her man and her children. But now? Too much. She'd been cursed since the moment Cersei Lannister and all her brood stepped foot in Winterfell.

Ned scooted closer and lay a gentle hand on her shoulder.

"Don't touch me!" she snapped. Promptly remembering her manners, she added a semi-conciliatory, "please, Ned."

He drew back his soft hand.

She remembered the first time he'd touched her after his 'return.' Hardly a callous on that strong, smooth hand. A hand meant to caress her. Now it was just hard as it ever was, remembering the feel of steel in its grip.

"I'm sorry Cat, truly," he whispered. "If there was any other way, I'd have taken it. Just our misfortune to live in a time when the Gods seek to make us their playthings," he said soothingly.

'Blaspheme!' "What do you want?!" she demanded.

She thought she heard him whisper, "Peace."

Then the bed started to shake softly as if Ned was smothering laughter. Apparently done with his amusement, her husband got out of bed and began clothing himself. Finished, she heard him take steps towards the door.

"What do you want?!" she demanded again.

Pausing at the door, Ned looked back at her. "I want the King to view me amicably. Let's charm him with a Stark family dinner," he chuckled. Then Ned was gone.

* * *

"Mother," Sansa chastised. "Lemon cake? For breakfast?"

Catelyn fought the sheepish look that tried to break out on her face. Sweet things as part of breaking one's fast were strictly forbidden in her well managed household. Yet she'd had a craving for lemon that morning and the staff had been more than happy to bring her a small tin of the savory, sweet biscuits. She deliberately finished chewing before she opened her mouth to speak. She hadn't expected to see her daughter so early in the morning; getting up to face the day instead of lying about in bed boded well that perhaps her wrecked spirit was on the mend. She delicately cleared her throat after swallowing the last morsel. "I thought I deserved a treat," the Lady of Winterfell simply declared.

Sansa frowned. A not particularly attractive look for the girl; one of the brutal, still fresh scars on her unbroken cheek snaked down to the corner of her mouth and when she frowned, her lip pulling down, it made the red welt all the more vivid and practically throb. "You and father never came back out last night," she accused with her quiet complaint. "And Robb ignored my and Arya's questions when he left your rooms. He looked upset. Is everything all right?"

The worry in her daughter's words caught at Catelyn's heart. She put on a brave smile, all the while thinking, 'Of course not! Everything is terrible! By the Seven, at least your Lady is dead and you won't turn into one of … one of … Oh Robb! Oh Bran! Oh Rickon!' she bemoaned to herself. 'Why could I have not been more pure!? Damn Ned and his wolfish northern blood! Of course Jon Snow is cursed too, no thanks to his slut, whore mother's beguiling blood!' she raged.

Her kindly façade most have cracked. "Mother!" Sansa choked out, almost whimpering her concern.

Catelyn flung her arms open. Her beautiful, disfigured daughter ran into her reassuring embrace. "Oh dear one, everything's fine," she lied with a sweet whisper. "It's just … It's just that your father wants us to host the King for dinner sometime soon. He wants his Grace to learn to trust us. And … and, well … Robb feels that the King's pricklish pride will never forgive Robb nor forget how our banners proclaimed him King of the North."

"Oh," Sansa sniffled into the crook of her mother's neck.

Catelyn lovingly stroked her daughter's long auburn hair, so like her own. Part of her took refuge in that at least the lions hadn't marred this bit of Sansa's beauty. Another part cursed the lie she'd told. 'I must see Robb and Ned today before Sansa does,' she thought, knowing how fragile her daughter's trust in anyone was right now. 'I can't let her catch me in a lie.'

The door to the eating parlor swung open. A guard wearing the livery of Winterfell stood in the entry way. Spotting Catelyn he dropped a small bow. "You lady?"

"Yes, Fryank?" the Lady of Winterfell responded, never letting go her embrace of Sansa.

"Ser Wendel Manderly is waiting at the main door to see you, your lady," the guard murmured.

"Whatever for?" she asked with surprise over the top of her daughter's head.

"A matter of honor, your lady," Fryank drolled with a hint of both humor and irritation. "He departs King's Landing this morning and would say his goodbyes."

"Honor?"

"He insists," the guard answered.

"Very well," she sighed. She knew her lord husband's banners well and the younger son of Lord Manderly very well. The great walrus, and his even greater sized walrus of a brother Wylis, had escorted her from White Harbor to Moat Cailin; and then become one of Robb's personal guard, his battle companion, from the Twins to the Whispering Wood to Riverrun. She would do her duty and see the honor proud knight. "But I think not here, Fryank. I'll come greet him in a minute in the foyer."

The guard bowed and withdrew.

"Better I meet him there, than here Sansa," she whispered in her daughter's ear. "He might eat all our larder before he departs," she joked.

The battered girl chuckled, remembering the immense girth of the near middle aged Manderly 'boys,' from their periodic trips, along with their even more massive father, to Winterfell. Sansa slipped out of her mother's arms, a smile on her face; none of her scars tugging downward unattractively. "May I have a Lemon cake too?" she asked.

"Take the whole tin," answered sweetly. She'd bribe her child to the ends of Westeros if it made her happy. "But be sure to share some with Jeyne."

"I will," Sansa answered dutifully, but cheerfully too.

* * *

"Ser Wendel," the Lady of Winterfell said kindly, extending her hands to the garishly sea color clad man wearing a trident sporting merman on both his tunic and cape as she entered the entrance hall. The knight and one of the few nobles in the North to share her worship of the Seven stood erect, gut thrust outward, his large bulk patiently awaiting her arrival.

"Lady Stark," the gregarious man boomed back, accepting her small digits in his enormous paws, before bending his bald head over so his walrus style facial hair could tickle what little skin of her hands remained exposed.

"Catelyn, surely, Ser Wendel, after all we've been through together," she courteously commanded with a bit of a conspiratorial tone.

Two crimsom dots exploded in the knight's pudgy, pink cheeks. His toothy welcoming smile split even further revealing more of his ivory tusks. "Lady Catelyn, you are as gracious as you are kind as you are lovely. I said as much to our King when my lord and your husband personally selected me to be his first envoy to his Grace," the gallant and fat man blustered, easily inflating the importance of his two hour voyage by fishing boat into Blackwater Bay.

"I thank you for the good impression you passed on to his Grace," Catelyn replied, gently, but firmly tugging her still whole hands out of Ser Wendel's meaty grasp. "The King is a new person to us in the North," she continued. "There is much for him to learn about us and likewise we must learn his ways too."

The knight bobbed his head sagely. "There is no shillyshallying in his Grace. That much is certain," Ser Wendel proclaimed with a knowing grin.

'Yes,' Catelyn agreed ironically to herself. 'Once he lets others win him King's Landing, his Grace moves very quickly indeed.' "Pray tell Ser Wendel, is his Grace at all the reason you have come to see?"

"Yes and no, your ladyship," the walrus beamed with pride. "Yesterday early evening there was brief mention of a possible mission." And now the knight lowered his voice and accompanied it with a wink to say, "A secret mission," before resuming at his usual boisterous level of speech, "to Dragonstone. Then late last night I received a message from the King that a modest fleet would depart today and I was to be on it." He lowered his voice dramatically again, "From Dragonstone I am to travel on to White Harbor with precious cargo and messages for my father and the other lords and castellans still in the North."

Catelyn's stomach heaved. A sour look to match her sour belly spread across her face. She feared she might vomit. 'That wasn't Ned's plan against the Others,' she thought confused, distracted by her rebellious insides.

"Don't look so sad Lady Catelyn," Ser Wendel blathered on, oblivious as to the real reason behind the change in her ladyship's expression. "While I shall alas miss out on the garlands still to be won here, we all must do our duty as your lord husband, his Grace, and the Seven require of us. But if I dare boast, I think the fierce mermen have already earned their fair share, and will do more in the future, what? Did we not safely escort you, my lady, as my puissant father, Lord Wyman, commanded, along with the levy of our House, from White Harbor after your landing to the mighty host your son, the war lord Robb, gathered at Moat Cailin? And did I not share the dangers of the long road south and the Whispering Woods and Riverrun and the taking of King's Landing with you, my lady?"

"So you have come to say your goodbyes to me then, Ser Wendel?" Catelyn asked with a hint of confusion at the actual intent of the knight's ramblings.

The walrus bowed deeply again. "Yes, sadly 'tis true. My lord father would be distraught, if I did not enter your presence one last time before my departure and ask if there is any last favor House Manderly may perform for you ere I take my leave?"

"Very noble of you good Ser. May I ask? Will the King or my lord husband be at the docks to see you off?" the Lady of Winterfell asked.

Ser Wendell smiled with deep pride. "Yes, I believe they intend to, your ladyship."

Catelyn's stomach lurched again. "Then you may do one last deed in my service today, Ser Wendel. Kindly escort me down to the docks and my lord husband. The sea breeze will do me good."

* * *

Through the crowd of six wolves and six mermen forming a moving shield around Catelyn and Ser Wendel, she could see the tall figure of the King looming over the tired features of her husband. 'Gods he looks exhausted,' she thought. While his skin was now smoother, younger, and devoid of all the scars, both small and large, that he'd accumulated in over thirty years of regularly training with swords and even fighting, and surviving, battles; since his 'return,' Catelyn had never seen his face look so old, so lined with care marks. Though she couldn't comprehend how Ned had refused to share his 'knowledge' with her, and with Robb, until last night; she certainly could understand how that horrible, terrifying 'burden' he'd carried alone until yesterday might age him. She well remembered, even through her own heart shattering grief, how her father had seemed to age overnight after the death of his wife, Catelyn's mother. Seeing Ned, obviously still unhappy and weighed down, depressed her. She still had her own anger to work out at her sometimes icy husband, but she'd hoped last night's revelations might have freed her husband's soul somewhat.

They came to a stop, a good fifty feet away from Ned and the King. The guards parted to show that the pair stood alone, out of earshot from any busybodies. Neither man looked happy. Clearly the two bull headed men were having a disagreement.

"Your Grace, my Lord Stark, I have returned," Ser Wendel announced, oblivious to the tension surrounding the men he addressed. "And I have brought Lady Stark with me."

The pair looked up at the distraction. Noting his wife, a fleeting smile slipped across Ned's face before returning to its previous aura of icy coolness. The King scowled at the interruption, then mastered himself at the sight of Lady Catelyn. "Ser Wendel, Lady Catelyn, you may approach," the King deigned.

Alongside the knight, the Lady of Winterfell stepped past the semi-circle of guards. Nearing the King they bowed and curtseyed. "Your Grace," they echoed together.

"Your lordly husband is a stubborn man," Stannis Baratheon announced without preamble.

Her husband tried to keep his mask in place, but failed and exuded irritation at the King's words.

Catelyn breathed deep before answering. The hint of salt on the air blowing in off the bay felt refreshing, invigorating. "I know of no woman who, when asked in the strictest confidence, would say otherwise about her husband, your Grace," she said impishly.

"Ha!" barked the King, amused at her slight unfaithfulness to the proprieties of his chief banner's marital compact.

Ned simply snorted, but kept his mouth shout.

"But pray tell me, your Grace," Catelyn continued, "would her Grace Selyse say any differently of hers?"

The King's thin lips snapped shut. He chewed the lower one while rubbing his close cropped beard. "Nay," he at last murmured. "The truth of your words cut deep, Lady Catelyn. Are you married Ser Wendel?" he asked abruptly, turning his attention to the near dumbstruck knight.

"No, your Grace. I do not yet have that honor," the merman blurted.

"Then let this be an abject lesson to you, Ser, on the double edged nature of marrying a woman with wit, wisdom, and the courage to use it," the King concluded gruffly.

Catelyn curtseyed again while saying, "Your Grace is most gracious."

"And stubborn," he gloomed.

A thought struck her. "Too stubborn to accept an invitation to dinner, your Grace?"

A rumbling sound dislodged itself from the King's throat and sounded remarkably like, "When?"

Ned blinked in surprise.

"Why not tonight, your Grace? I thought just a quiet meal, you and my family."

"A King, a new King, must be seen feasting his many lordlings." Stannis Baratheon gritted his teeth, "No matter how tedious they prove to be. Perhaps another night, Lady Catelyn?"

"There are banners and then there are _Banners_, your Grace. My invitation could easily be extended to include my brother, Ser Edmure, and my uncle, Ser Brynden," she counter offered. "The Blackfish might have insight in how to draw the Vale to your support," she enticed.

"Generous, Lady Stark," the King commented, right before an almost devious look slipped across his stiff, stony face. "However, your lord husband and I have a disagreement. We are sending ships off on the autumn waters of the Narrow Sea and I wish them to include certain messages to the Houses of the North. These messages will carry more weight if they included Lord Stark's seal. However, he is … opposed to my … stratagem. If he were to include his sigil …" Stannis Baratheon left the implication dangling.

Catelyn shot Ned a look: _Don't say a thing_! "He accepts."

A snarl of frustration escaped her wolfish husband.

A jolt of pleasure flowed through her, knowing she'd tweaked her too closed off for his own good husband. Feeling ever so slightly guilty, she decided to throw him a bone. "Though, to be fair, your Grace, it is difficult for a clever man to accept that another is equally as clever."

"Ha!" the King barked again, understanding perfectly where the lady's jibe was truly aimed, at himself. "Beware the double edged spouse, Ser Wendel, beware. Very well, Lady Catelyn, I accept as well."


	22. Chapter 22

Sean seethed inside watching the tight arsed King walk smugly off the dock in the company of his wife, chatting amiably, probably conspiring against him. His hand squeezed at the pommel of his sword like it was a stress ball. The actor, somewhere deep in his Yorkshire psyche, had just enough self-awareness and sense of irony to realize his clenched jaw and tooth grinding reaction to having been shown up by Cat were a spot on match of George's go to description for one Stannis Fucking Baratheon the First of His Blockheaded Name. 'Bitch! I'm saving your shitty backward planet and you're giving me shit. Me!' he raged to himself. 'I'm the one who's read the fucking books! You'd have ended up a god damn zombie without me! Christ!'

"Lord Stark?" Ser Wendel asked most tentatively.

"What, damnit!?" Sean snapped.

The knight's puffy face turned red around his walrus bristles, partially out of embarrassment for his liege's predicament and partially for the unnecessarily ill-mannered tone used to address him. "May I beg your leave to check on the status of the ships, milord?" he asked in a strained, deep voice.

'Steady mate, these blokes are bloody prickly about slights to their honor.' The actor took a deep breath, trying to steady his nerves. "Certainly, Ser Wendel. Forgive my unseemly outburst. It was most unfair to you."

The Merman seemed moderately appeased by the apology and wisely said nothing, simply bobbing a somewhat stiff bow in acknowledgment.

"There is much for you to oversee; this mission to Dragonstone and beyond seems a fool's errand to most, I daresay, but the Old Gods have shown me how the North's future rests on the sharp edges of the black as night dragonglass you will collect." 'And other things too.'

At the praise, a hint of a smile peeked out through Manderly's thick accumulation of facial hair. "Proud I was when you selected me for this duty, Lord Stark; and still am."

"My duty today is lighter than yours, Ser Wendel." Not Ned lifted the pouch full of correspondence for the North's noble and masterly houses that that bastard Stannis had left the actor when he'd departed with Catelyn, and shook it lightly. "His Grace requires me to affix my sigil to these. Might I use your cabin to do so, then leave them there in your knightly care?"

The portly man's narrow smile widened further at the praise, revealing a mostly full set of teeth.

Sean couldn't help but notice that Ser Wendel's yellowing tusks were in desperate need of the benefits from regular brushing, fluoride, flossing, whitening, mouth wash, a dentist, and an orthodontist. This made him suddenly remember the root canal he'd had a decade ago. 'Bugger, that'll be another thing I'll have to introduce to Westeros if I want to have any teeth left when I die at an exceedingly old age.'

"Please follow me, Lord Eddard," Ser Wendel replied with a bow and then turned to waddle further out on the pier.

'Lord Eddard am I now?' Sean thought snarkily, following along beside the knight towards a merchant ship, that much to its misfortune Stannis had confiscated when it docked at Dragonstone, flying the Baratheon stag banner.

* * *

Sean sighed in annoyance as he dribbled wax from the lit candle he held on to the last of Stannis' already royally sealed messages. He pressed his signet ring into the rapidly cooling mound of goop and left an indentation of Winterfell's direwolf in the mess. He didn't even wince when he lifted his finger up out of the wax; he'd lost the last of the small hairs off the backs of the relevant fingers a dozen impressions ago. Typing an email, hell, even sending something by certified post, was a damned sight easier than this medieval contrivance of wax, parchment, carrier ravens, and rings.

The first time one of his lords, probably that fuck Roose, had wanted his seal to authenticate a message he'd realized his wedding ring, for more reasons than one, was useless; he needed a signet ring. Nevertheless the deficiency hadn't slowed down his kicking the ever living shit out of Tywin Lannister and only delayed by a couple days his first meeting with not Michelle as the dubious first emissary from Riverrun to Ned Stark. One of the first things he'd done in his initial private meeting with Robb, not Rich, was taking the boy's ring for his own.

As he absent mindedly rubbed bits of wax out of the indentations in the ring, the actor contemplated the now double sealed letters splayed out before him atop the cabins built in writing table. What did they say? He didn't know for certain. Sure the slyer than he looked Stannis had 'told' him what they said, but he'd 'accidentally' neglected to mention he'd already sealed them. "Tricky bastard," he murmured. The temptation had been so so strong for Sean to open one of the missives and see for himself how badly Stannis was screwing up his strategy. But he'd resisted. This was probably a secret test of Eddard Stark's loyalty and not Ned wasn't going to give Stannis anything to rest his suspicions on.

The actor sighed. "I've probably been playing my cards too close to the vest anyway." He realized that if he did die, an outcome he fully intended to delay as long as he possibly could, he still cared about what happened to those he left behind. He blew out the candle, reducing the light in the cabin to what came through the lone, heavily scummed over, port window. 'I can't control everything.' Sean left the dim cabin for the dimmer passageway.

"Does the mummer man have any last words?" a quiet voice whispered near his ear.

Not Ned jumped. "Jesus!" he exclaimed, reaching for his sword, surprised he wasn't already dead. Something reached through the dark of the passageway and grabbed his wrist; the nerves in his hand went limp, he couldn't grasp the pommel.

A soft laugh greeted his impotence. "A man must remain alive if he is to pay the price laid upon him; or has the mummer man changed his mind again and wishes to utter the name Jaqen, to Jaqen, again?"

Sean felt his heart unfreeze. He was glad and pleasantly surprised to discover he hadn't pissed himself from fright. He swallowed hard before talking. "The flames will have shown her that a man with your … unusual hair style is coming."

Through the murk, a flash of bright white teeth shown. "The mummer man has already warned me, more than once. I will be just so …"

The actor blinked, in the weak light he swore the Lorathi face in front of him waivered for a second, revealing the glimpse of another hidden beneath: hooked nose and curly black hair. Then just as quickly the face firmed back up into the familiar laconic expression of Jaqen. Sean gulped. "She'll know that face too," he rasped. "If your talents allow it, you should change frequently, and only into the faces of people coming off the boat or already living on the island.

The white teeth revealed themselves again. "The mummer man knows much about the art of becoming that which he is not."

"And? Did you truly want to hear any last insights from me? You're the trained assassin," not Ned accused.

Jaqen chuckled softly. "You are a mystery, mummer man."

'Stop calling me that, damn you!'

"The true skill of my brotherhood is to see inside the hearts of men. I know what you are not, but not yet what you are. And I am not alone in seeking the truth of this."

Chills went up and down Sean's back. 'Who else,' he wondered. 'Dare I ask?' He watched the white and orange haired man stand silently, patiently, waiting to see if he could tease an answer out of the actor. 'He'll want to know the truth before divulging anything; too dangerous,' Sean decided. Not Ned cleared his throat uncomfortably, wanting this little tet-a-tet to be over. "After, will you go back to Braavos or does the Many Face God require you to take another life?" the actor asked pointedly, showing the assassin he would leave with his curiosity unsatisfied.

Jaqen smiled ruefully, perhaps having seen how close he'd come to acquiring what he'd sought in this audience. Then he touched his forehead, whispered "Valar morghulis," and backed away from not Ned until he disappeared in the gloom of the ill lit passageway.

"Valar dohaeris," Sean replied just as quietly, wondering whom or what exactly he did serve.

* * *

The dinner was going surprisingly well, if a bit quieter than normal, with only the King, the Starks, the Tullys, and their attending squires present. The meal was simple and hardy: cheese, bread, a fish stew, apples, dried plums, a vegetable pie, and water and ale to wash it down with. Stannis surprisingly, as tact was not his strong suit, had yet to make any mention of the marital discord between not Ned and not Michelle which had allowed him to accept the evening's invitation. Not so well, the only time the King addressed Sansa, he'd asked to see her injuries, which with reluctance and dampening eyes she had allowed him to stare at her brutally damaged face. At least the bastard hadn't asked to see the whip marks on her back. When his gaze was satisfied, he had told the poor child, "I will see justice done to Joffrey Waters and all your tormentors, Lady Sansa." The girl responded as her upbringing had taught her, graciously, but her tone revealed she thought little of what a man considered just.

"Grey Wind," Robb called lightly.

The direwolf, laying on the ground opposite his human companion's seat at the table, perked up his ears at mention of his name.

Robb held up a knife on which a thick piece of tuna rested. "Do you want some?"

Grey Wind blinked, then his ears drooped back down, revealing his indifference to sea food.

Roslin, sitting beside her husband, tittered. "It seems, my lord, that your wolf prefers meatier sustenance." The pretty little chit turned to look at Robb's squire. "Alyn, could you go find a bone, and not a fish bone, for poor Grey Wind?" she politely asked her Haigh cousin, a grandson of Walder Frey through marriage to his long dead first wife Perra Royce.

"Of course, my lady," he promptly answered and excused himself.

The direwolf stood up at mention of a bone and looked to follow Alyn Haigh until not Rich told him to stay, which brought obedience and brief rumble in his throat.

"Tell me Ser Robb," the King asked. "How did you come to discover this beast out of legend and tame it?"

"The taming was not hard, your Grace. We found them as near new born pups, their mum slain by the antlers of a stag."

"An omen I hope we find not repeated," Stannis said wryly. "Were you wandering about that Wolfswood of yours?"

Robb smiled curtly and shot not Ned a knowing look. "No your Grace, we were returning from the execution of a deserter from the Night's Watch."

"And were you there as well, Lord Stark?" the King inquired.

Edmure chuckled. "I should say so, your Grace. My dear good brother has the grim Northern sense of justice."

"And what is that, Ser Edmure?"

"Tell him, Lord Eddard. It's your custom."

The actor instantly remembered the quote he'd said to Issac, not Bran, as if the very page of the script was sitting in front of him. "The blood of the First Men still flows in the veins of the Starks, and we hold to the belief that the man who passes the sentence should swing the sword. If you would take a man's life, you owe it to him to look into his eyes and hear his final words. And if you cannot bear to do that, then perhaps the man does not deserve to die."

"And did your lord father speak those words to you that day, Ser Robb?" the Stag asked seriously.

"No, your Grace, not that day. But he did say those words to my brother Bran, much like he did to me the first day I ever saw him pass the judgments of Winterfell on a man," he said solemnly.

"Have you ever passed justice in this way, your Grace?" Ser Brynden inquired earnestly.

"Yes," the King replied, his tone, even in such a short word, showing he took the duty very seriously.

"And did you ever think to yourself, your Grace, that maybe you could not bear what you were about to do?" 'Let's see how you answer that?' Sean thought to himself, his enlightened British sensibilities expecting a response that would show Stannis Baratheon just as blood thirsty and psychotic as the rest of Westeros so called chivalry.

"Once," the King answered. "Though Lord Stark it was not an instance where I truly considered separating the man's head from his shoulders," he said with what might have passed for dry wit.

The actor's eyebrows shot up in surprise.

Stannis nodded, having taken note of not Ned's sudden, increased interest. "It was during my Brother's rebellion." The man's eyes darkened at the memory. "We in Storm's End had little to eat if you remember, not like this magnificent feast tonight," he said with no apparent irony and then ground this teeth together briefly before continuing. "As we starved I had to kill several faithless men who conspired to throw the gates open to the Tyrells. But there came a time when I knew we would soon no longer be strong enough to man the walls should the Reachers find time to pull themselves away from their over laden tables and make an assault."

'Davos,' leaped into Sean's mind.

"Then on a cloudy night with no moon we found succor from a smuggler of all people. He slipped past the Redwyne blockade like a ghost to bring us onions and potatoes. I received this savior, a man I'd never met but well knew of for his renown at dodging tax collectors and the royal fleet. He left me in a quandary; we would have been defeated without him, but one good deed, even a great deed, does not wipe away the sins of a lifetime. He deserved a justice that accounted for both the good and the ill."

"What did you do, your Grace?" Robb asked breathlessly.

'Cut his bloody fingers off, that's what he did,' Sean thought to himself. He'd yet to see Ser Davos in person, a fact he much resented for though the man was low born and shunned by the nobility, he had Stannis' trust. Such a man could prove very useful to the actor.

"I took the first knuckles off all the fingers of his left hand for his crimes and knighted him on his right shoulder for the nobility of his daring act. Ser Davos took the name Seaworth and choose a white onion reposed on the sail of a black ship as his coat of arms," the King responded.

"Hear, hear!" Edmure near shouted

"Well done!" cried the Blackfish.

Roslin applauded.

Robb broke into a wide grin.

Sean wasn't sure if they were reacting to Davos' pluck or Stannis' definition of justice.

"Your Grace, what did Ser Davos think of your justice?" Catelyn asked sagely.

"Devan," called Stannis.

"Yes, your Grace," the squire standing behind the King's chair promptly answered.

"Tell us your lordly father's opinion of my justice."

"He found them just, your Grace; and requested you swing the blade yourself," the squire said with strange enthusiasm.

"When I first pronounced sentence on Ser Davos, I did wonder whether my judgment merited. I had already intended to carry out the penalty myself, but when the man agreed so readily and requested my own hand take part of his, then I knew I had satisfied what justice required of me," Stannis said rather smugly. "And has your lordly father ever once found fault with my sentence, Devan?"

"No, your Grace. My lordly father wears the bones of his fingertips in a bag around his neck. He thinks of them as his good luck charms," the youth said with pleasure.

Stannis smiled at the evidence his own vast wisdom and benevolence.

Brynden, Edmure, Robb, and Arya lauded Ser Davos' strong embrace of Stannis' justice.

Catelyn, Sansa, and Roslin said nothing, but their faces showed mild disgust at the knight's use of his missing digits.

'Davos's got bigger balls than me, that's for sure,' Sean told himself.

The main door to the dining hall opened, Alyn Haigh stood there, looking a bit nervous.

"Bring me the treats, Alyn," Roslin called out. Grey Wind stood up again and sniffed the air.

"I fear I did not bring them, my lady," he answered his Frey cousin.

"Alyn," she scolded.

He ignored her. "Your Grace, my Lord," he said, addressing not Ned and Stannis. "A visitor most urgently requests permission to enter with important news."

"Who is it?" the King asked grimly, unhappy at the interruption.

"Ser Davos Seaworth, your Grace."

'Speak of the devil,' Sean thought.

"Let him enter," Stannis commanded.

The squire turned to gesture behind and several seconds later a plainly garbed, plain faced, slender man strode into the room and bowed deeply to the King.

"What news have you for me Ser Davos?" Stannis asked.

The man smiled slightly through his brown and grey speckled beard before speaking. "Your Grace may remember I grew up in King's Landing, in one of the less illustrious neighborhoods; and sometimes returned here during my days as a smuggler. I have been in touch with some of my contacts from my less honorable endeavors."

"The news, Ser Davos, if it is so important you must barge in on my meal with Lord Stark, Lord Tully and their families," he said impatiently.

"I've discovered a way into the Red Keep, your Grace?"

'Shit!' Sean swore. 'Too soon!'

"By the Seven, outstanding!" Stannis barked, actually looking outright pleased. "Is there any other good news?!" Stannis asked almost excitedly.

For a moment no one said anything, then Catelyn abruptly announced, "I'm pregnant."


	23. Chapter 23

Merle Waterman, his chubby squire from fat Lord Manderly's court in White Harbor (did they grow them any other size there?), tugged hard on the straps, making sure the breast plate fit snuggly, but not too snuggly, against his doublet and torso. "Good, my Lord?" he asked.

Sean nodded his approval. He'd been sitting mostly quiet, stewing inside and seething, as his squire suited him up for the night's unnecessary mission.

The teen smiled up at the Lord of Winter and then moved behind not Ned and the simple stool he sat on. Merle breath didn't change as he lifted up the back plate from where it leaned and slid it into the tongue and grooves provided for it on the edges of the breast plate. Several metallic clicks announced the joining of the two sheets of Earth, not Westeros, wrought steel. "Too tight? Too loose?"

The actor rolled his shoulders and wiggled his hips, judging the marriage of the two. The weight felt familiar. His first two weeks on this god forsaken shit hole of a murdering world he'd worn little other than this present from the Show's stunt coordinator and master armorer. At least while awake, though he'd wished the entire experience, from the inexorably long horse rides to the brutal insanity of the battle at the Green Fork, an unending nightmare. At least Clint and Harry had been proven right, with their specially made front and back plates on him he'd made it through his next role, that of Warlord, alive.

"_Milord! Milord!" the distant voice shouted._

"_Lord Stark, a messenger," the Umber man-at-arms nearest him said anxiously._

"_Rest in peace Tyrion Lannister," he whispered, "for those bastards made of your life a living hell." Not Ned stood up, a bloodied dagger dangled nearly nerveless from his hand. At his feet the Dwarf, the Imp, not Peter laid inert and twisted; displaying an ugly mortal wound at his side and the mercy stroke upon his neck, a ragged little red smile proving to all the world that Sean Bean was a killer. "What?" he asked in a daze._

_The smelly, gore covered man grabbed his arm and jerked it to point up the hill that they had only minutes earlier charged down. "Messenger," he hissed._

_The actor shook his hand free and started to look about for signs of any more fighting and clansmen. "Are we alright?"_

"_They broke, Lord Stark," the psychopath said with bad breath that rushed between yellow and brown gaped teeth._

"_Oh," he muttered distractedly, and stopped scanning about in order to look at the rider on a garron scarce larger than he recklessly shoot down the slope. Several other fighters around him waved their hands in the air to attract the messenger's attention. 'This is crazy,' Sean thought. His arms and legs ached, but his chest, despite the almost gasping breaths he took, felt fine. He looked down and saw several slashes through the surcoat he wore over his armor. _

_He peered in more closely through the holes to investigate. "I'll be damned," he whispered. Only the faintest of scratches shown on the smooth gray steel surface. The actor put his hands on his hips in amazement. Something didn't feel right. His sword, it didn't rest in its scabbard. Puzzlement. "Where's my sword," he asked in puzzlement._

"_Here, Lord Stark." The banner sworn to the unchained giant of Last Hearth pulled the sword out of the dirt near Tyrion Lannister's body from where his liege had plunged it's tip in his haste to reach the little man. "Not the right way to treat your steel, my lord," the man scolded._

_Not Ned nodded absent mindedly and took back his slightly nicked blade, surprised to note the lack of any blood on it. 'I swung the fucker, didn't I?' His memory of the charge down the backside of the hill towards the force of mountain barbarians flanking the Kingsroad was a jumble of bumps and shrieks and flashing swords, axes, and polearms and men falling. _

_The messenger pulled up a dozen yard away. "Lord Stark, the line breaks! The line breaks and there're no more men to plug the gaps!"_

"_Shit!" 'Flee!' a part of his mind caring only for his preservation yelled. Nevertheless he waved his sword over his head dramatically and screamed, "Come on, lads!" And Sean Bean, actor and Ned Stark recreationist, started trotting back up the hill to see what disaster awaited him._

"The gorget?" Merle asked.

"No, I'll be wearing the visorless helm," the actor answered sensibly. 'And looking like Sir Ian in X-Men,' he chuckled too himself. "In the dark, I think seeing and mobility is more important than what the extra protection the bassinet or great helm offer.

"The aventail then," his squire determined and walked back to the table where the dwindling remains of his armor selection waited. The young man picked up the chain mail mantle and stepped towards not Ned.

"I'll put that on my lord husband," Cat announced.

Sean pivoted as best he could, the greaves and cuisses covering his upper and lower legs creaking as he turned towards the door from where not Michelle had suddenly appeared. His wife stood there, her placid public face trying best to hide the private anxiety he could just barely detect beneath her delectable, and equally aggravating, surface.

"Of course, my Lady," Merle responded and promptly passed the flexible curtain of chainmail over to Catelyn.

"That will be all, Merle," she commanded.

Not Ned's squire bowed and silently left the room, making sure the door shut behind him.

Catelyn stared back at not Ned and Sean stared back at not Michelle. She broke the long, painful silence first. "Lift up your chin," she ordered him.

He paused, scowled, but at last did as she wanted.

The cold metal of the chain links making up the edge of the collar brushed over the hair on the edge of his skull and tugged at his ears, bending one sharply, until at least slipping past the obstructions to settle around the base of his neck and drape part way over his shoulders. Cat reached out a hand and brushed his lengthening hair, though still shorter than the damned wig he wore on set. "I'm sorry, Ned," she whispered.

The actor looked up, at last taking note of the moisture gathering in the corners of her eyes. He hated when a woman went on a crying jag with him, manipulating him, twisting him into knots. Sean said nothing, putting as thick a mask of ice on his face as he could. If he'd been cheesed off at her before the dinner, playing Stannis against him to assuage her hurt feelings, that was nothing compared to how steaming he felt after she'd dropped her baby bombshell.

"I didn't know what to do," Cat claimed with a soft, husky voice. "I've never been so angry at you Ned as I was last night. All those secrets, so many of them so very difficult to believe, that you kept from me. After all these years, to think you didn't trust me, to treat me so coldly. But I could never hate you, or hurt you Ned. I've tried to understand. Please believe me."

He raised his eyebrows dubiously and narrowed his eyelids to shield himself from her womanly pleadings and sly deceptions.

"It's true. I worried that the King would want you to go along with him. And I … I thought if he knew I was pregnant he'd … he wouldn't …" her voice trailed off despondently.

"YOU THOUGHT!? Oh god!" Sean spluttered and then started laughing. He couldn't control himself, the irony and pathos of the situation rolling off him in waves. "You thought? Good god women, Stannis would never have commanded me to go if you _hadn't_ shoved your pregnancy in his face! God damnit!" he smacked a balled up hand on to the stool in frustration.

Cat looked confused.

"He needs to win the Iron Throne for himself. So far I've been doing all the work for him, at least until now. He had to do this last bit without me to prove, however weakly, his right to kingship by conquest," he explained with brutal coldness.

His Westeros wife's eyes widened, the light of understanding beginning to shine in her pretty blues.

"Now, thanks to Stannis' over developed sense of honor, he thinks he must take _me_ with him into the Red Keep for fear otherwise my banners might think I, _I_, was hiding behind you and the coming babe. As if I haven't done enough dirty deeds already," he hissed.

She raised her hands to cover her mouth as she gasped, "I've made a frightful hash of it."

'Just like you always do in the books when you lead with your heart; and now I'm left holding the bag for it this time, bitch.' "Oh it gets better, Cat. Stannis now has an opportunity to see me dead," Sean spewed. 'And shit rolls down hill, Roose, you bastard; if I'm risking my life you're coming too.'

"But why?" she chirped.

"Because of you, my beautiful, red haired Cat. You're gorgeous fertile hips are going to have our sixth, _sixth_ child." 'My fourth. Maybe I'll get a lad this time,' he thought with a strange wistful hope. "What does Stannis have? An ugly jug eared, hair lipped wife and one pitiful daughter scarred with greyscale."

"The King would never ordered you killed," his wife declared firmly.

Sean shrugged. "You're right, he's likely too in love with justice to purposefully cause my death. But if it he needs someone to lead a particularly dangerous task tonight, who do you think he'll just happen to ask?" the actor posed wryly. and then shrugged again. "Lord Stark was Robert's friend, never mind," he intoned, doing his best to mimic Stannis' deep, brittle voice.

"Ned, oh Ned," Catelyn gushed and then through herself into his arms.

Even through his armor, her warm, pliant flesh clung to him. Through her sniffles and tears she plastered his face with kisses. Despite himself, and the bizarre situation before him, Sean felt himself growing hard. 'Jesus, I can barely get my cock out of this get up to slash. No way I can pull my stiffy out for a goodbye shag,' he cursed inside.

"I'm so scared for you Ned,"

"I've come back from the dead for you Cat," he said and pulled her tighter. "There should be nothing to fear tonight," he claimed, trying to reassure her and himself too.

She burrowed her head deeper into the crook of his neck. "Ned?" she asked tentatively.

"Yes," not Ned whispered back.

"I've seen you practice," Cat said in a tiny voice.

"And …" he prodded.

"You're … slower and less graceful than before … than when you wielded Ice."

The truth of her words struck him for he knew them to be true. Yet until that moment, no one had dared tell the Lord of Winterfell he was no longer near the swordsman he had once been. In response, one of his hands snaked down the back of her gown and cupped her firm, shapely buttock; giving it a saucy squeeze. "You've never complained of my sword work before," he teased.

Not Michelle giggled briefly, then uttered, "Ned," with all seriousness.

"Worry not, luv. My plate'll stop any blow, the Old Gods," 'or at least Harry and Clint,' "have told me so. And maybe I'll get Ice back tonight too," he said, trying to put a cheerful spin on her alarming and truthful observation in the dark of the night.

* * *

The single file line of two hundred lords, knights, and trusted men-at-arms shuffling down the narrow winding stair case of the nondescript house two streets over from the southwest facing of the Red Keep created a muffled, but constant clanging of steel and iron as they slowly worked themselves lower and lower into Aegon's hill. The secret passageway the invaders were taking had originated in a bedroom. And the bedroom sat in a whorehouse, surprisingly one not owned by Peter Baelished Industries, LTD; and thus not one of the properties confiscated under not Ned's Asset Forfeiture Plan during the taking of King's Landing. Amusingly, the current management, well compensated for the disruption to their night's business, had had no knowledge of the hidden entrance to their Premium Players' suite.

Ser Davos' trolling for information amongst the haunts of his smuggler's days had fortuitously dredged up an old hag, one who as a youth had been the maid to the lovely daughter of some minor Crownlands house. One of the Hands in the early days of Aegon V's reign had taken this fair lady as his paramour and ensconced her in this townhouse since it contained a secret passage into the Red Keep through which he could visit her unseen from prying, blackmailing eyes. When her mistress unexpectedly perished from the sweating sickness, the hag, knowing that her silence on the Hand's affair would inevitably be bought with her life, fled with what coins and valuable trinkets of her lady's she could quickly scrounge. And for over fifty years she had lived a quiet, comfortable, unremarkable life on the edges of the stews and slums of King's Landing.

Men behind Sean, from his place in the back half of the line, started cursing. The Blackfish, walking just ahead of not Ned and carrying a torch, paused and turned to look back at the commotion. "Careful!" the actor shouted and bobbed his head aside from the flaming torch head that threatened to singe his face.

"Sorry," Ser Brynden replied with an embarrassed smile as he quickly jerked the torch backward.

"Someone comes," Roose Bolton said in a barely audible voice.

Head safe from flame, Sean turned his head to look back too. "That much is certain, Lord Roose," he said sarcastically, peering up into the bloodless man's pale milky eyes.

"Keep moving!" several angry voices behind them in the dimly lit gloom shouted.

The Leech Lord turned too and hissed in his soft voice that carried surprisingly far back up the twisting staircase, "Lord Stark awaits a messenger."

'Fuck me! How does he know?' Sean thought angrily.

"Father?" not Rich's voice called up from the murk below.

"Best keep going Robb," he answered. "Grey Wind can't be happy in here. We'll catch up in a minute or two."

"Very well," the boy replied.

"I envy you your children, Lord Stark," Roose Bolton abruptly announced.

'And I'll see your bastard, Ramsay, dead,' the actor thought.

"And I congratulate you on your lady wife expecting another," the Leech Lord continued in a whisper.

"How did you?!" Sean asked with both surprise and heat.

"Have you thought of asking his Grace to become his Master of Whisperers, Lord Roose," The Blackfish japed?

Roose Bolton ignored the quip. "News and rumors travels quickly through your army, Lord Stark; especially anything about you, our Old Gods given savior," he said.

Sean swallowed hard, finding something in the tone of 'Old Gods given savior deeply unsettling. His fear of the man made the actor angry. 'The pale faced shite wants to play games? I can fight fire with fire,' he thought. "And what of children for you, Lord Roose? We're of an age. There's still plenty of time for you to marry and sire a true heir for the Dreadfort. This King, I think, with his sense of honor, is not one inclined to legitimize a bastard, let alone one who would inherit such an illustrious house as Bolton."

"Only a greenseer 'tis said can foresee the length of winter and the depth of snow it will leave, Lord Stark; I shall consider your wisdom on the matter," the Leech Lord pronounced.

"My Lord," a familiar voice called out from a dark figure muscling his way down through the gloom of the passageway past the line of warriors clogging it.

"Ser Olyvar," not Ned replied to the emerging figure of his aide, happy to have his strange conversation with Roose Bolton interrupted. "And?"

"Your pardon, Lord Roose," Walder Frey's eighteenth son said, crowding in and around on the slight form of the Leech Lord. "'Tis done, my lord," he whispered proudly.

Sean saw Roose's eyebrows twitch at the news. He ignored the crazed skin flayer. "And you're sure you find it?" he asked cryptically.

The knight nodded. "I came here as a squire to my brothers for the tourney held in your name, my lord; and one morning I toured the keep. I can find the place," he said with youthful certainty.

"Good," the actor said firmly.

"Dark words, Dark wings?" the Lord of Dreadfort queried. "Who shouldn't hear of his Grace's taking of the Iron Throne this night?" he asked with quiet amiability.

"Unusually well informed, indeed," the Blackfish, whom not Ned had shared the what of Olyvar's missions but not the whys, harrumphed.

"If Lord Stark trusts me to be by his side at the fall of the Red Keep, then I thought it best to learn all of my lord's plans, so I might aide him should he need me," Roose Bolton said a tad too reasonably.

"I trust you Lord Roose," not Ned murmured, turning back around in order to continue his descent into the bowels beneath the Red Keep. "I trust you." 'Just as far as I can throw you.'

* * *

BAM! BAM! BAM!

"What's the problem?"

Men were packed tooth to jowl in the tight tunnel, waiting to go around one last bend from around which the hammering sound echoed from.

"The door's stuck."

"Probably hasn't been used in decades."

"If only more Hands had been interested in whores."

"Should've brought the Greatjon, he'd smash it in right quick."

"He's too big to squeeze down this hole."

"Hey, that's what the wife says about me."

Sean shared in the laughter that followed the unseen man's jape. The space was uncomfortably tight and the air fetid, stifling. Nerves were fraying from the tension. The actor felt his own belly tightening, like opening night on stage. But part of him took refuge in that tonight's experience could never be as horrible as his first battle.

"_Come on, lads!" he cried out again, this time in a ragged breath to the two or three hundred men following him. Jogging up hill was taking its toll on him, fit as he was the actor wasn't exactly young anymore. What's more his armor weighed a ton and his body ached from lugging it about. He hoped the Lannisters charging on the other side of the hill were just as exhausted. 'Bastards probably all have horses, the fuckers. Hey!' "You!" he shouted over at the messenger on the garron. "Come here!"_

_The man trotted his pony over. "My Lord?"_

"_Off! I'm taking your horse!" he commanded. '_Rank has its privileges.'

_The man looked unhappy but hopped down nonetheless._

_It took Sean three tries after he slid his sword into its scabbard but he finally hauled his middle aged arse up into the saddle. He spurred the beast and trotted up to the rocky spur at the crest of the hill. "Jesus!" he swore in disbelief. The slope splayed out before him was a seething, confused, roiling mass of bodies; at least those bodies that weren't lying dead or mortally wounded on the chewed up, bloody turf. 'Hope you're happy George, you sick fuck,' he thought. War, real war, not the thing of heroic movies and thrilling novels was definitely not glorious._

_Spying on the intertwined groups of men hewing away at each other atop a long line of dead bodies, the untrained eye of not Ned could barely tell which side was which side, let alone who was who. He at least felt good that there were surprisingly few Lannisters still on horseback. A few here, a few there, but only one large mass, maybe five hundred of them, slowly riding down the line sniffing about for any weak spot or hole to charge through. Gold flashed brightly off one of the Westerlander's breast plates. "Tywin," he snarled. _

_At last, his crew of doughty, leg driven Umbermen slowly started gathering about him after finally finishing their long climb. "Any suggestions?" he asked, totally at a loss what to do._

"_Wait fer dem herse ta charge ands hope we've time ta hits'em hard," a man bleeding from the neck, who might have been a sergeant, suggested when no one else seemed willing to say anything._

"_There are twice as many of them," he pointed out._

"_Well whats about t'em," a squirrelly eyed man said through his crooked helmet._

"_Who, man? Who?" Sean raged._

"_T'archers, milord," squirrel eye said._

"_Hunh?"_

"_Theys is guardin ta noble bounty."_

_Sean's head snapped to either edge of the battlefield, where the tree line set the boundaries of the fight. How did he miss them? Several hundred hunkered about peering around tree trunks at the chaos out on open ground. "Gods damn them!" he howled. "You! You!" he shouted, pointing at the sergeant and the squirrel. "Go bring those men into the fight," and he gestured towards the nearer group of bowmen, "no matter what! Or I'll give them and you to the Boltons to flay!"_

_The pair scurried away to belay his threat._

"_The rest of you stay here until I return!" Then off the actor rode toward the far line of trees. Nearing them several score archers stepped out into the open to greet him. "Come on, come on!" he cried, whirlwinding his arm to encourage them to move._

"_Milord?!" they shouted back in confusion._

"_I need you in the fight!"_

"_We're out of arrows, milord." A few protested._

"_You've knives and short swords, no?"_

"_Aye, many of us," some agreed._

"_And there's plenty of weapons to be taken off the wounded and dead. Now come!" he demanded._

"_But the prisoners, milord; we can't just let them go!" one disputed vigorously and almost all nodded in firm agreement._

_Realization dawned on him. These prisoners were knights and lordlings. His stomach threatened to spew on him. 'Gods, this is Agincourt and I'm fucking Henry V!' "Kill them!" he commanded, praying that in fact the ends did justify the means._

_The archers looked aghast. The ransom of even one knight represented more wealth than most men in the North could earn in a lifetime. "Milord!" many cried in unison._

"_You won't have a ransom to collect if those shites overrun us!" he bellowed, vigorously waiving an arm at the madness below. "Now kill them!" he demanded._

_A horn blew!_

_Sean's head snapped around. Tywin Lannister had at last found a satisfactory gape to assault. He turned back. "I'll give you one minute to kill the bastards and five to find me in the line. Old Gods help you if you fail, for I'll be waiting at Hell's gate to feast on your souls!" And with that he brutally turned his slight garron around and charged back to his waiting Umbermen._

_As he rode, the brief speech he would give his loyal banners, perhaps his last speech ever, flowed easily into his brain: 'Then my friends, then, unto the breach we shall charge to drive them away or close the wall up with our Northern dead. When the blast of war blows in our ears; then imitate the unchained giant and the dire wolf. Stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood, disguse fair nature with hard favour'd rage. Now set the teeth and stretch the nostril wide …'_

CRASH!

"Hurry!" voices cried eagerly.

Sean didn't think it possible, but the pressure on him from behind increased even more at the promise of the exit being breached. It took nearly five minutes for the one hundred and fifty or so men in front of him to push their way out of the confined tunnel. Not Ned found himself in a storage room, floor wet with wine from the broken, over turned barrel that had been blocking their passage. A man-at-arms holding a torch stood by the door out of the store room shouting, "come on, come on," over and over again. The actor went where he was directed.

He followed a corridor past door after door, the stomping of those ahead of him showing where he needed to go. He turned a corner and found another man holding a torch. This one pointed and shoved people through a doorway which turned into a stairwell. Three entire revolutions he made until he broke out above ground into the circle hall forming the first floor of the tower they were in.

"Step aside, step aside," a third man of arms said, blocking the stairs that went up higher into the tower. "The rest of us are to follow the King," he announced.

When Ser Olyvar came out of the lower stairs, Sean grabbed his aide's arm and pulled him over to the other set of stairs. "This one goes up to," he commanded.

"Milord?" the man-at-arms questioned.

"He goes," not Ned insisted icily.

"Come on then," the man grumbled, letting Olyvar through.

* * *

Sean surged out of the tower into the cold raw night following the mass of warriors accompanying the King. The soaring outer walls of the Keep, almost shadows in the darkness, rose out behind him in a V-shape and in front lay a few sparsely lit outbuildings squatting abut to a massive structure, the Great Hall; home to the Iron Throne. The Blackfish and Roose Bolton kept pace beside the actor, all their breaths now visible as they ran through the chill air; while Robb and Grey Wind loped ahead, close to the leading wave of Baratheon men-at-arms. Slowing down, he craned his neck to look up and spotted a black mass rushing along the top of the wall in the direction, he supposed, of the main gate. Shifting his gaze he squinted in the other direction but could discern no movement high up towards the towers the other way, one of which had to be the Rookery. 'Godspeed Olyvar,' he prayed.

"Lord Stark, with me!" shouted the King's voice through the darkness, closer to his goal, .

Sean jerked his attention back closer to the earth. "Yes, your Grace, coming," not Ned replied, dutifully quickening his pace to try and catch up to the bitterly driven Stannis.

A half dozen men dropped out of the charge to secure the servants in the kitchens and work shacks abutting the outside Throne Room; they were already awake in the pre-dawn hours preparing the garrisons breakfasts. Nearly fifty then slipped in through an unguarded side door that opened by the foot of the steps that separated the last forty feet of the Throne Room, the royal platform, from the rest of the monstrous sized cavern. A few torches burned in brackets on the walls, sending weak flickers of light to pass through or bounce off the towering pillars supporting the vaulted roof high above.

Sean walked between two pillars into the main room and whistled. 'Now that's a fucking throne of swords!' he thought. The thing was immense, a giant hunk of twisted iron and blood thirsty blades; not an almost cute prop created on a limited budget for the sound stage. "You'd be proud, George," he whispered. The King was already up the steps to the platform, approaching his destination, his Sean Bean arranged destiny. As if by secret agreement, none followed after the Stag; they all simply watched, eyes glued tight to the simple, yet somehow awe inspiring spectacle.

Stannis Baratheon reached the base of the monument to Aegon's conquest of Westeros. Purposefully, slowly, he took each step of the Iron Throne, coming at last to stand before its seat. The Stag turned, revealing a look of almost religious fervor on his thin, normally dyspeptic face. With satisfaction and care he lowered himself on to Aegon's perch. "I am the King," he pronounced grandly.

"Just cause your bony arse sits on the throne, doesn't make you King!" a sarcastic voice suddenly shouted out from the far end of the Great Hall. Heads spun in shock to spy the source of the blaspheming. Jaime Lannister stood cockily amongst a score and a half of red and gold cloaked men. "I ought to know, I sat there once, didn't I Stark!"

"Charge!" bellowed the Blackfish, breaking the spell of arrogance and superiority cast by the Kingslayer.

The opposing forces, swords, axes, and polearms drawn, swept towards each other and in seconds the sound of steel beating on steel filled the room.

Sean hung back, holding a long sword in sweaty hands, not eager to rush into the fray. 'How the fuck did he happen to be here?!' he wondered in amazement; quickly followed by, 'I wish I'd have brought a shield!'

"Lord Stark, with me!" shouted the King for the second time in two minutes as he trotted past not Ned toward the fighting.

"Your Grace, let your loyal banners win this," the actor pleaded.

"Robert won the crown with his hammer, I would have none think I did elsewise," Stannis proclaimed proudly, not stopping. And soon the Stag was busy chopping away at a gold cloak who did carry a shield.

"Shit," Sean grumbled, knowing what he had to do in spite of his fears. In a moment not Ned was beside the King, hacking away for his life and that of Westeros.

The pair kept the guardsman occupied until Sean forced him to turn his shield so far aside that Stannis could skewer through the chainlinks in his armpit, rupturing arteries and a lung.

Something flashed towards the King. Sean instinctively threw his hip into the exposed Stannis, knocking the Stag aside, while not Ned interposed his blade in the way of the Kingslayer's stroke.

K-TANG-tang-tang!

The actor's sweaty hand nearly lost hold of the sword, spark's flying off it where Jaime Lannister's blade screeched across it.

With ridiculous speed the Kingslayer brought the grey, smoky colored greatsword he swung back around in a two handed grip at not Ned' head.

Sean desperately whipped his arm around in a circle to drive his sword down atop his foe's, disrupting the Lion's aim just enough. Metal sang as chains popped off the base of the aventail resting on his neck and shoulders as the blade swept past him. 'Get inside, get inside!' he screamed to himself. Not Ned charged the Kingslayer, praying to get inside the man's arms and drive the point of his sword into the sister fucker's ball bag.

But Jaime Lannister was far too seasoned for such an obvious ploy and shifted his hips to avoid the thrust. He dropped his nearer hand off the thick greatsword to slam a forearm into not Ned's shoulder, sending him backward. "Taste cold Ice, Stark; Winter is coming!" the Lion shouted with insane glee. One handed the blood thirsty golden one flicked Valyrian steel at the Lord of Winterfell's face.

Sean jerked his head back from the incoming blow and felt a prick in the soft flesh below his left eye. He stumbled back further still, off balance.

The Kingslayer, driven by vengeance for his father and brother, relentlessly came after his prey. Conveniently, despite the ebb and flow of melee in the Great hall, no other fighters got in between them.

The actor desperately back pedaled; trying to keep his balance centered and sword raised in the semblance of a defense posture he'd first learned a decade earlier in New Zealand.

Tank. Tank. Tank.

The Lion used his blazing speed and the tip of Ice to play with not Ned's sword. "Is that fear in your eyes Stark? From the man who cannot die?" he scoffed while driving his hated enemy almost to the foot of the stairs.

"Go fuck your Cersei!" he shot back. Then before the actor could blink, the Kingslayer beat his blade to the side and the point of Ice punched into his breast plate. Sean gasped, anticipating the exquisite pain of death.

Boink!

The Valyrian steel bounced off Sean's Earthly armor. Jaime Lannister's eyes opened wide, startled by the unanticipated outcome.

'Yes!" not Ned thought exultantly. 'I'm bloody invulnerable!' Sean's blade slashed back at the surprised Lion. But not fast enough for the Kingslayer to back his blade up and take part of the attack. Still, the actor felt the edge of his sword take some sort of bite from the crazed bastard's left arm.

Jaime Lannister's body grunted in acknowledgement of the blow, but it barely slowed his response, a straight thrust back at the Wolf's midsection.

Now it was Sean's turn to shift his hips. The blade lightly glanced off his side as again he stepped forward. But with his sword arm back he was too close to try and swing, so he aimed a kick at Kingslayer's happy sack. 'Missed!'

The blow caught Jaime Lannister in the thigh and he staggered backward.

Sean recklessly followed.

Something caught the corner of the Kingslayer's eye and for a second his eyes turned. Ice stabbed out at the back of some Baratheon man-at-arms just a little too close to the Lion.

'Now!' Sean's already partially raised sword took a chop at the Lannister's now exposed neck. A dark metallic blur whirred impossibly face towards him. Instinctively the actor screamed, "Nooooooo!"

Thunk.

A hand fell to the Throne Room's floor. Through the crimson spurting in gushes from his wrist, Sean Bean morbidly noticed his fingers jerking and wiggling on the sword pommel. 'Niko is supposed to lose a hand, not me! Not me!' part of himself thought in stunned wonderment. "AAAAAAAAHHHHHGGGGGGGGG!" The actor realized the screaming he heard was his own, though he had yet to feel any pain from his maiming.

"Die Stark!" the Kingslayer swore.

The Lion launched another lightning strike at the now defenseless actor cum Lord of Winterfell. Sean flinched and stumbled backward, turning his body away from the mortal strike as he fell over.

CLANG!

The Valyrian steel edge of Ice struck hard against the side of not Ned's movie studio produced breast plate. Sparks flew. He grunted hitting the ground, feeling hard jolts from both the fall and the Kingslayer's immensely strong blow reverberating through the metal, across his thick doublet, and deep in his bones where it rattled.

A wolf howled.

Jaime Lannister stepped smartly back into an en garde position as something huge and furry leapt over the prostrate actor. Sean looked down at his torso and giggled; Harry and Clint's magical gift was dented and heavily scarred, but still whole after Ice's ferocious assault. 'Bastards should've given me magic vambraces and gauntlets too,' he thought with a whimper.

The stone pillars rising through the flickering torch light into the dark recesses of the Throne Room's ceiling started to pitch and swirl about Sean. Nausea swept through him. The flag stone floor tilted and spun. In the distance he heard Stannis' deep, bitter voice pierce loudly, harshly through the din of sword strokes and screams to demand their surrender to the true King. He lifted up his shattered right forearm and clutched at it weakly with his left hand, trying to stem the flow of his precious life's blood. "Not supposed to end this away," he moaned.

"Lord Stark! Lord Stark!" a voice whispered.

He could hardly see a thing through the shadows hovering over his eyes. Then he spied Roose Bolton peering down at him through a small gap in the dark clouds far, far above. 'Treacherous fucking bastard. I kept trying to kill you, and now it's me,' he thought wretchedly. Sean watched as the Leech Lord, holding a small flaying knife in his hand, reached down towards him.

The Leech Lord touched not Ned and where before there had been no pain, only shock and merciful numbness; now fire scorched up his arm and filled his chest with blistering agony. Snot flew from his nostrils as he writhed in torment, body flailing about on fiery tendrils mercilessly tugged by this pale, bloodless demon from the pits of Hell. The tears and blood flowing off his face failed to quench the inferno raging within him. His limited vision shrank even further until only the happy, evil little smile of Roose Bolton filled the eyes of Sean Bean, husband, father, Yorshireman, actor, failed savior, and Internet cliché. 'God damn you George, you sick fu …'

* * *

**BOOK 1: Sean Lends a Hand - FINIS!**


End file.
